


Gravity

by Malibusunset



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malibusunset/pseuds/Malibusunset





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Gravity

 

Author: Malibu Sunset

 

Email: malibusunset88@gmail.com

 

Classification: MSR, established relationship

 

Spoilers: Entire series and through IWTB

 

Rating: NC-17

 

Summary: Schmoop and sex. That's pretty much it. Don't say you weren't warned.  A series of vignettes set around the time frame of I Want To Believe. Mulder and Scully look the way they did in IWTB, but Mulder doesn't have his beard (because it's scratchy and Scully didn't like it and neither did I). 

 

Disclaimer: Not mine. No infringements intended. No money being made.

 

 

**Dry Spell**

 

For such a neat person, she slept like a category five hurricane. This was something he could not have predicted about her, even after knowing her for eight years before being forced into cohabitation by circumstances. She was all five foot and change and she took up two-thirds of a king sized bed when she slept. He made do with whatever she left him and didn't complain, because let's face it, a bed with her in it beat the hell out of one without. He knew that to be fact.

 

He woke with a start to focus on her empty side of the bed, down comforter and untucked sheets in a twisted wad. The indentation from where her head had been was still evident on the overstuffed pillow. The sound of a dresser drawer closing caused him to rock to his back and prop himself on his elbows. She faced away, easing a pair of black running shorts on over her cotton panties. Her back was bare, a careless low ponytail of russet strands sweeping between porcelain shoulder blades.

 

"Hey," he said, squinting in the pre-dawn shadows.

 

She startled and spun. "Mulder! You scared me."

 

He offered a lazy yawn. "My bedhead's that bad, huh?"

 

"I'm going for a run. It's early, go back to sleep." Pink nipples disappeared underneath white lycra as she wrangled into a sports bra.

 

It was Sunday. No hospital for her today. "C'mere," he said, his mouth stretching into another yawn and his arm reaching lazily toward her.

 

"What?" she smiled, her eyes showing suspicion. She knew very well what, but she came to him.

 

He wrapped an arm around her trim waist and pulled her down. She crumpled into soft curves and warm skin on top of him. He flexed his morning erection into her stomach and she smirked.

 

"Mulder, I really need to run this morning."

 

"What? I didn't say anything." He flexed it again. "Even God rested on the seventh day, Scully."

 

"I'm not God and you're a hypocrite. Since when do you keep the Sabbath, Mulder?"

 

"Today seems like a good day to start," he said, nuzzling her neck. "Don't run. Stay in bed. Plenty of cardio to be had right here."

 

"I've been eating hospital food all week. My jeans are snug."

 

 "Can you pinch more than an inch?" he asked, skimming his thumbs up the sides of her rib cage and feeling her shiver. Scully was ticklish. Another little known fact.

 

"Don't tease. You work out every day. You're in the best shape you've ever been."

 

She was right, he was. That's what happened when your existence was confined to a fifteen-acre plot of overgrown rural land. There was only so much cataloguing of newspaper clippings and surfing the internet he could do. He had taken to watching The Today Show and the cooking channel. He learned how to make things like pasta primavera and chicken cordon bleu. He figured out what capers were and how to separate egg whites. And he ran. Sometimes more than ten miles per day around the trails behind their property. Their upstairs guest bedroom was set up into an indoor gym where he lifted weights. It had mats for Scully's yoga, a Stairmaster, and a treadmill.

 

"And you're the thinnest you've been since..." He didn't have to finish. Since her cancer. "You don't eat enough." He kissed her bare shoulder.

 

"I eat plenty. Stop nagging."

 

"I'm going to start packing your lunches for work and putting smiley face notes in them."

 

She giggled and pressed her nose into the springy hairs on his chest.

 

"Then everyone at the hospital will know you're a kept woman," he said, sucking in air through his teeth when she nudged his nipple.

 

"They just think I'm a lesbian now."

 

A thoroughly amused snort escaped him. "How do you know that?"

 

"It's to be expected. When you turn down date invitations from five different men in six months, there's bound to be talk." She shrugged. "It doesn't bother me. It's easier this way."

 

"Until the women start asking you out. Is it wrong of me to be more than a little turned on by this information?"

 

She pinched his hip and clicked her tongue, reproachfully. "Behave or I'll tell Dr. Ackerman I'm free for dinner next week after all."

 

"You wouldn't."

 

She smirked teasingly. "He drives a jaguar and even has a little hair left." They both laughed.

 

Light had begun filtering into the room and he could see the deep azure of her eyes and the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose that she always covered with makeup. "You're so beautiful," he said.

 

She dismissed his compliment with her eyes and a slight shake of the head.

 

"Scoot up. I can't reach your lips," he said, tugging at her upper arms. She moved up his body, sliding tightly over his erection with her thin slippery shorts.

 

He hissed. "Oh yeah. That's what I'm talking about." She laughed.

 

His lips found hers and he sank his tongue into her mouth and squeezed her hips with his hands. She indulged the kiss for a considerable time before pulling back and tilting her head, apologetically. "How about we hold this thought for the amount of time it takes me to run five miles and then take a shower?"

 

His eyes narrowed. "Mmmm, or better yet, you go for the run and then we pick up where we left off in the shower."

 

She chuckled and pushed off him, heading to a laundry basket on the floor that had clean, folded laundry in it. "So now we're negotiating over sex?" She extracted a light blue fitted tee from the pile and tugged it over her head.

 

Mulder swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood, then shuffled off toward the bathroom, scratching his chest and shaking his head. "A week, Scully. Actually nine days today." He felt a little like he was pouting and nearly regretted the words the minute they came out.  

 

She followed him to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, her arms crossed in front of her chest, puzzling it out. "You keep track of when we.....really, nine days?"   

 

He stood at the toilet with his back to her. "A week ago last Friday night. I only remember because I made that spaghetti bolognese thing and you got some sauce on your shirt and I suggested that you take it off right away and soak it and you did and then things got a little carried away."    

 

He flushed and moved to the sink. She crossed to the toilet and put the seat down so she could use it herself. He didn't apologize because they were beyond that and she had conceded this particular transgression of his years ago and had adapted. Only one time in their six years of living together had she gotten up in the middle of the night to pee without turning a light on and sat down to find the seat missing. That had not been a good night. He had made a conscious effort for a few weeks after that and then finally slipped back into old habits.

 

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "It's just been a hellish week. Long hours. I guess I just forgot. You know how it goes."

 

Actually, not so much, no. The idea amused him. Forget about having sex? How exactly does that happen?  It definitely had to be one of those Mars and Venus differences.

 

Her response made him feel a little like a charity case, but his libido got the upper hand on his pride. He bent and attached his lips to the smooth slope of her neck while she stood at the sink, pressing suggestively into her from behind. "Go for your run."

 

"Come with me," she said.

 

"Sorry, Scully but there is only one reason to be awake before 7 a.m. on a Sunday and since that clearly ain't happening, I think I'll go comatose for another couple of hours." He planted an affectionate kiss to the top of her silky head.

 

The toilet water ran continuously and Scully scowled and went over to jiggle the handle before sliding the porcelain back of the tank off to the side and peering down in annoyance. "Can you please, finally...I mean, I think it's just that little flapper thing." She pointed and wrinkled her noise.  He reached in and pulled a lever up and held it until the water stopped.

 

"It's been doing this for a month now. Do you know how to fix it or should I call a plumber?" she challenged.

 

"Of course I know how to fix it, Scully. It's just that rubber...the-the flapper thing, like you said. Shouldn't be a problem."

 

She wasn't fooled and eyed him, skeptically. "We'll go by the hardware store later."  She made her way into the bedroom again, calling back, "And don't forget the lawn. We really need to mow it today, don't you think?"

 

And by "we" she really meant "he," and with that, his fantasy about a Sunday afternoon spent in bed waxing poetic over the swell of her bare hip vanished like a desert mirage.

 

He sighed and did a face plant into her empty pillow, yanking the covers up over his head.   

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

He was awakened next by the sound of the shower running. He glanced at the clock and saw that an hour and a half had passed. Another glance around the room revealed that there were running shorts and a T shirt tossed haphazardly onto the chair by the fish tank. If they were there, then they weren't on Scully. He slipped from the sheets and tiptoed into the bathroom to find her at the sink, toothbrush in hand and frothing at the mouth. Her sports bra had gone the way of the other discarded clothing and her breasts jiggled with the movement of her arm. She really should brush her teeth topless more often. In fact, he'd insist on it.

 

She noticed him standing there, but pretended not to. When she had finished the rinse and spit, she shook her long hair from her ponytail and shed her panties onto the tile floor with one wiggle of the hips before stepping behind a steaming shower door.

 

He heard her hum softly for just a moment and then, "Well? Are you coming in or do I have to wash all the fun parts myself?" He smiled as his boxer shorts flew into a corner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Home Improvement**

 

 

The first thing she noticed when she pulled the white Taurus up around the circular drive in front of their farmhouse was that all the windows were wide open and music blared loudly from the lower level. It was decidedly unusual. She typically found the house quiet, a distracted Mulder holed up behind his closed office door, banging away on his computer. Sometimes she would search the rooms of the house to find it empty. Once in awhile he'd leave a note in hasty chicken scrawl on the microwave door or the refrigerator telling her he'd gone for a run, but mostly he just disappeared and she waited for him on the front porch in her jeans and bare feet, sipping tea and reading a novel.

 

She stepped out of the car and stood there in just her shirt sleeves, the air uncharacteristically warm for an early spring evening.  Not for the first time, she noticed that the outside of their house, especially the long porch, looked uninviting and empty. One lone wooden bench swing twisted in the breeze, suspended from rusty chains. It needed potted geraniums or something. Maybe some cozy wicker furniture with seat cushions for all of the entertaining they would never do. At least a damn welcome mat.

 

She scaled the front steps and entered the house, nearly tripping on a rolled-up oriental rug and catching herself on a chair that was blocking the front door. The rest of their living room furniture was piled in the center of the room with old sheets draped over it. At least she hoped they were old sheets. Mulder stood halfway up a six-foot ladder with his back to her, a spongy roller in his hand.

 

Scully circumnavigated an almost path to the CD player and turned down Aerosmith just a few notches, thereby announcing her presence.

 

"Oh hey, Scully, what's up?"

 

She arched her brows at him and shifted the strap of her heavy briefcase up her shoulder. "I could ask you the same thing."

 

"I'm painting."

 

"I see that. Um...I didn't realize we had decided-"

 

"It's Mulling Spices."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"The color. It's called Mulling Spices. I thought it picked up the hue in the couch cushions. Do you like it?"

 

Who was this man with paint in his hair and a long enough tear in the rear of his old jeans that she could see his plaid boxers peeking through? His decorative flare typically consisted of managing to pull the comforter up over the rumpled bed sheets in the morning. Sometimes the throw pillows got put back on the bed, but most often not unless she did it. Her gaze was stuck on the tear in the denim that yawned wide open at her every time he shifted his leg. Damn, that ass. Still. 

 

She looked around the room slowly and carefully for a full minute until she sensed his nervousness. "Yes," she said. "I do like it." And she did.

 

She dropped her briefcase and purse on the table and made her way to the kitchen. "Is there a dinner plan?"

 

"Um, I think there's still some of that chicken thing from last night lurking about."

 

"Did you eat yet?" she asked.

 

He had gone back to his painting, making long vertical sweeps with his roller. "I uh-yeah, kind of. I've been sort of eating all day." 

 

She took the casserole dish from the fridge and peeled back the aluminum foil to see that yes, he had. There was half as much left as there had been when she put away the leftovers last night. She deposited a measured portion onto a plate and popped it into the microwave, then went upstairs to change her clothes.

 

Ten minutes later, she was sitting cross-legged on a sheet-covered ottoman with her dinner balanced on her lap, watching the back of him and talking with her mouth full.

 

"So what inspired you, Mulder?"

 

"Nothing specific. I just thought the room could use a touch of pizzazz."

 

Pizzazz? Who says that? "You've been watching This Old House again, haven't you?"

 

He shrugged. "Maybe. They've got some good ideas on that show. In fact, I was thinking when I'm finished painting, I might rewire the stereo speakers for surround sound." He gestured with his free hand around the corners of the room and gave a casual rock star bob of the head. "Maybe even drill through the ceiling and put some speakers up on the second floor."

 

She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. "You want to drill through the ceiling, Mulder? Do you think that's such a good idea? It sounds complicated."

 

He shrugged noncommitally without turning around. "What's so hard about it? You drill some holes and fish some wire."

 

Her eyes swept slowly up to the corner of the ceiling where innocent drywall sat unsuspecting and currently undamaged. What had made her think he could behave himself for long hours at home unsupervised? 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

Two more rooms got painted equally inoffensive and safe colors, and the upstairs bathroom received new floor tile and a shiny chrome Shower Massage to replace the old leaky, lime-encrusted shower head. After months of crappy motel bathrooms, followed by the outdated plumbing of the old farmhouse, she had forgotten what real water pressure was like. And the Shower Massage. Yeah that. Turns out it worked great on aching calf muscles that had walked too many hospital corridors and tight neck muscles. Yes, it was good for things besides... well besides.

 

A small wooden table appeared in the corner of their bedroom. It was his first ever attempt at carpentry, that she was aware of anyway, and although she wasn't sure what its intended purpose was and she didn't want to ask, it was kinda cute in a retro, flea markety sort of way. If she tilted her head to one side when she looked at it, it was mostly level, but she wasn't sure she trusted it with a lamp or lit candles. She put some books on top and an unbreakable picture frame.

 

When she got home from work each night, she scaled over tool boxes and drop cloths, dislocated furniture and boxes of nails to get to the kitchen where there was never anything for dinner anymore.  He used to cook sometimes or at least boil pasta; now he measured and hammered and put shit together. She did her best not to trip on the extension cords and started bringing home take-out. This was testosterone at work. She figured it was akin to a pregnant woman nesting and was best not interfered with. It would run its course.  

 

As predicted, she came home on a Tuesday evening to find every morsel of furniture, decoration, knick knack, and picture returned to its rightful place. Hammers, nails, drills, ladders, and screwdrivers had disappeared. The table was set and something bubbled in the oven. The Gypsy Kings floated through all levels of the house on surround sound speakers.  

 

Scully slid out of her sensible shoes and jacket and padded barefoot in her skirt to the back of the house to push open the screen door. He was sitting on the steps with two sweating beers next to his hip.

 

"One of those for me?" she asked, plopping down open-legged and unladylike next to him.

 

"Always." He handed her a bottle and draped an arm around her shoulder.

 

"The house looks good," she said, and he nodded slowly. They drank and watched the early summer sky turn from orange to red as the sun dipped behind the barn that they had yet to figure out what to do with.   She had really only been inside it a dozen or so times in the four and a half years they'd lived there. During their first week, they had gone for a literal roll in the hay and she had come away with red, blotchy, itchy spots on her butt and thighs. She knew there was a good reason why she liked being on top.

 

"I know it's not everything you wanted," he said, quietly, still staring off into dusky nothingness. "This life."

 

Her eyes moistened and she bit her lip. Her voice caught in her throat. "If I didn't want it, I wouldn't be here. I want it." She looked right at him, unblinking. 

 

He kissed her softly with his eyes closed, pulling her long hair free from the elastic to cascade around her face in an amber waterfall. To be this in love. Sometimes the sheer weight of it knocked the wind right out of her.

 

He stood, pulling her to her feet alongside him. "Come on," he said. "Let's eat dinner and then get drunk and play Yatzee."

 

The screen door slammed behind them and they left the heavy wooden door open so a cool cross breeze could flow through the first floor. It was a warm night, but not quite hot enough to bother with air conditioning. She suspected that they'd sleep with the bedroom windows open and just a sheet tonight.

 

Dinner smelled good and she was hungry. The beer she'd drank had settled into her empty stomach, making her feel woozy and liquidy. Her cheeks flushed like they always did when she drank any amount of alcohol. The sailor's daughter in her used to be able to keep up when she was in college and med school, but not anymore. As she got older she had the tolerance of a hummingbird. She also experienced a marked loss of inhibition whenever she imbibed. Any more than two glasses of wine and her clothing started coming off faster than a prom dress in the back of a Chevy. It was no surprise that Mulder frequently offered her a glass of wine with her dinner.

 

Tonight she didn't mind. She had freshly painted walls, Spanish guitar on the stereo, and a fugitive with dreamy hazel eyes and sexy forearms, who already knew all her erogenous zones.


	3. Chapter 3

  **Making The Best of It**

 

They had stopped being so careful awhile ago. It was just natural. It had been years since there'd been any indication that anyone cared about their whereabouts. And even then, it had been difficult to tell if they were actually being followed, or if they were just paranoid. She had purchased a house, entered a residency program and had a Virginia State Driver's License. If anyone really wanted to find them, it wouldn't take much, especially for the FBI. Still, he stayed home mostly and they kept to themselves. They weren't neighborly, they didn't socialize with others, and the steel gate at the end of the driveway did a remarkable job at keeping salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Girl Scouts from knocking. 

 

 

 

Sometimes he'd say he wanted to see a movie and they'd go. Not to the big suburban movieplex, but to the little Mom and Pop theatre with the sticky cement floor and no cup holders that was only half full at best, even on Saturday nights. She'd buy their tickets, the popcorn and the diet soda. He'd wear a hat and sunglasses and follow her in quietly. They'd sit toward the back and hold hands and it was as close to a date that they'd get. They made the best of it.

 

 

 

Once in awhile, on Sunday afternoons, they'd go for drives. They'd pack a cooler and take a blanket and a radio and go until they felt like stopping. She'd drive mostly, but sometimes he would if the roads were isolated. He missed driving. It was one of the things he never thought about missing until he didn't do it anymore - like sitting on a park bench and people-watching or stopping into a Starbucks or wandering through a used bookstore.

 

 

 

They'd find a patch of wide-open green space and spread out under a blue sky, unpacking sliced apples, sandwiches, hummus, cheese and crackers. They'd drink red wine from plastic cups and stay there all afternoon, sometimes reading, sometimes napping, sometimes watching clouds go by or making love.  

 

 

 

They got creative when it came to life's necessities. When he needed clothes, they'd go to a department store and he'd sit in the dressing room while she brought him things to try on - jeans and khakis, turtlenecks and henleys. A knit sweater or two because she liked the way he looked in them. She knew all his sizes by heart now and she'd eye his lower half critically while he stood in front of her in stiff new jeans, and say things like, "Turn around so I can see the back," and "Are you sure the waist isn't too tight?" She'd tuck a tiny hand inside the waist band, her fingers ice cold against his stomach, and tug gently to make sure he had enough room, mothering him.

 

 

 

Haircuts were a bit more complicated. She cut it for him, and her skills had improved drastically over time. He had looked a little like a refugee for the first couple of years while she practiced on him. He'd just as soon leave it long, but she liked it short. And since she had indulged him when he expressed his

 

preference for her not to cut her own when it inched past her shoulders, he let her do what she wanted with him.  

 

 

 

When Christmas came, they cut down a small tree from the edge of their own property. It was shapeless and prickly and had large bald patches, but it needed a home and they knew what that felt like. Scully brought home colored lights and boxes of ornaments and an angel for the top and it didn't look half bad when they were finished with it. There were gifts underneath the tree consisting of things he purchased online for her using her credit card, which seemed just a little bit silly. Books and CDs, forest green silk pajamas and a warm woolen scarf that matched that damn coat she wouldn't part with. She got him an espresso machine and a new electric razor to encourage more frequent shaving because even though it was totally worth it, she could do without the stubble burn on her inner thighs.

 

 

 

Once in awhile, Scully got invited to do things with her colleagues. A drink after a long shift, a summer barbecue, a holiday party, a baby shower. She made a lot of excuses and became quite good at producing genuine regret whenever called for. There was always an appointment that she had forgotten until the last minute or unexpected car trouble or a sore throat. Every so often, she'd use up all her excuses for awhile and so she'd go and make the best of it, laughing politely at jokes and nursing a drink until it was acceptable for her to leave.

 

 

 

The fact that she came alone to everything didn't go unnoticed and eventually, her female colleagues began to take an interest in matchmaking. Everyone had a brother, a divorced friend, a neighbor that they were at least seventy percent sure wasn't gay. She'd smile over coffee and fidget, her cheeks coloring. "Maybe sometime....my schedule is a little busy right now...oh goodness look at the time, I'm due in surgery in ten minutes."

 

 

 

She was asked out by other doctors, which was even more awkward. Most were polite and friendly, albeit disappointed when she said she just wasn't interested in dating at this time. Her life was complicated, et cetera, et cetera. Only one had been rather persistent, sending flowers to the house, leaving her wondering how in the hell anyone had gotten the address. They had been so careful. Pink roses and stargazer lilies and baby's breath had been cut and arranged into a vase on the center of the table when she got home with the handwritten card sitting face-up next to it. "Dana, I hope you'll reconsider. Kurt."

 

 

 

She had opened the door to Mulder's office, holding the stupid little card between her fingers. "Mulder, it's nothing," she told the back of his head.

 

 

 

"I know," he said, without missing a keystroke.

 

 

 

She went to him and placed her hands on the tops of his shoulders. "Do you?"

 

 

 

He swiveled to regard her with tired eyes for half a minute, then gave a short nod. "If you say it's nothing, then it's nothing."

 

 

 

She pressed his head to the flat of her stomach.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Cats**

 

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Ten minutes late already and she needed coffee. It was the mantra of an addict. She'd muster the energy to care, except that she didn't have any energy and that's why she needed the coffee. She descended the wooden staircase with her shoes dangling from two fingertips.

 

"Mulder, I have a consult scheduled for six, so I won't be home-" she rounded the corner into the kitchen and found it empty. Worse yet, no coffee waiting. She hit the button on the coffee maker with a resentful pout and walked back toward his office. Mulder made the coffee in the morning. She was spoiled and she knew it. A quick glance through the open door revealed a Mulder vacancy there as well. Where the hell-

 

The screen door in the back slammed. He hung his jacket up and toed off unlaced hiking boots. "Morning," he said, crossing to the kitchen sink and turning the water on.

 

"Morning. Where'd you go?"

 

He scrubbed his forearms with green dishwashing liquid that smelled like sour apple. "Feeding the cat."

 

Her brows went to her hairline. "We have a cat?"

 

"Sort of. The barn has a cat. A pregnant one, from what I can tell."

 

"And ...you're feeding it?"

 

"Yeah. She has to eat, Scully. She's pregnant."

 

"Mmm hmm. I got that part. Um, what exactly are you feeding her?" Because Scully did all the grocery shopping and she didn't recall buying any Friskies recently.

 

"Tuna fish. We need cat food. Can you stop on your way home and get some?"

 

"Mulder, do you think this is a good idea? To feed a feral cat living in our barn?"

 

He gave her an amused smile. "Feral? I don't think she's going to take my arm off or anything, if that's what you're worried about. She's just a kitty."

 

"Who is accustomed to fending for herself and now you're feeding her. In my experience, that usually means she's here to stay."

 

He shrugged. "I've been down on my luck before. I know what it's like."

 

She rolled her eyes and filled a coffee mug.

 

"Hey Scully, do you think you could take a look at her before you go to work? Just check her over?"

 

He had to be kidding. "Mulder, I'm not a veterinarian."

 

"Yeah, but you'd know if she was basically okay, right?" She started to shake her head no. "She's going to have kittens," he continued, and his eyes had that soft, pleading look they always had right before she did something for him that was totally against her better judgment. Soft, pleading Mulder eyes. The word kittens. Oh, Jesus.

 

She sighed, not believing she was actually considering this. "Will she even let me get near her?"

 

"If you move really slowly and speak soothingly to her, she'll let you touch her." Scully had an idea that men had probably described her that way once upon a time.

 

She gave an unconvincing half nod with her eyes closed and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

 

 

 

****** 

 

 

 

One of Mulder's large hands held the grey scruff of the cat gently but firmly, while the other stroked her silky back. He spoke in a soothing, low tone, the same one he used on Scully when she poured herself out of her shoes and onto the sofa after a sixteen hour day. The cat's eyes were glassy slits of green, relaxed and calm, as she purred in response to Mulder's ministrations. Scully knew how it felt.

 

 

 

She tucked the metal flat of the stethoscope underneath the cat's swollen belly and listened, her eyes wandering to a fixed point on the wooden side of the barn door so she could concentrate on the quick staccato heartbeats. Honestly, she had pretty much no idea what she was listening for. She had once set a fractured paw for Jack's Springer Spaniel until they could get him to the vet, but that was basically the extent of her cross-species medical expertise. Mulder looked at her with trusting, hopeful eyes and she tried to look like she knew what she was doing because she sensed it was important to him. Odd because, other than his fish, he had never really expressed much interest in domesticated animals, she thought, recalling his detached, almost resentful relationship to her own dog. He must be softening in his middle age.

 

She pulled the ear pieces of the stethoscope from her ears and swung the rubber tube around her neck with a long sigh and scratched the top of the cat's head, smoothing one thin ear back to peer inside and looking for any evidence of the black, coffee ground-like substance that might indicate ear mite infestation.  She found none.

 

 

 

“What do you think, Scully?”

 

 

 

“She's pregnant,” Scully said with a sigh and a resigned half-smile.

 

 

 

“And?”

 

 

 

“Honestly Mulder, I am in no way qualified to examine this animal.”

 

 

 

“But you must be able to tell something.”

 

 

 

Scully rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Yeah. I can tell you that I don't see any visible signs of trauma or injuries and that's about it.” Her tone was bordering on sarcasm. “Her heartbeat is strong and her lungs sound clear. The eyes and ears are clean. Beyond that, I have absolutely no idea. She could have any number of diseases, Mulder. She should see a veterinarian. Or better yet, go to a shelter.”

 

 

 

He nodded and continued stroking the cat, who had curled into a ball on a pile of hay with her head resting on her hind feet, purring loudly.

 

 

 

“Any idea how close to delivery she is?” he asked.

 

 

 

Scully shrugged tiredly. “The gestational period for cats is only about sixty days, I believe. Based on her size and how swollen her mammary glands are, I'd say close. Very close.”

 

 

 

“She probably came in here looking for a place to deliver. She's been sleeping over there in the corner by the hay bales,” Mulder said, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the back of the barn.

 

 

 

“If we let her stay here and deliver and you keep feeding her, she's not going to leave, Mulder. You do realize that.”

 

 

 

He shrugged and offered a sheepish smile.

 

 

 

“Mulder, we're talking about a litter of kittens. She could have five, six, seven...who knows how many. What are we going to do with them?”

 

 

 

“You could take them to the hospital and give them away? Free kitten with every appendectomy.”

 

 

 

“Be serious, Mulder.”

 

 

 

“It's a Catholic hospital. Procreation, choose life, populate the earth and all of that.”

 

 

 

“I don't think it extends to litters of feral kittens. However sweet they are,” she said, reaching to sift her fingers through the cat's cool silken coat. She was a pretty one – stripes of light and dark grey in a wild pattern with white patches on all four feet, a little pink nose that twitched while she slept.

 

 

 

“How about if we let her deliver here and recover for a little while, and then we'll take them all to a shelter,” he suggested.

 

 

 

She sighed again, not believing she was agreeing to this. “Fine. She can stay. In the barn, though. I don't want her in the house, Mulder. She probably has fleas and I have no idea if it's safe to use any kind of flea treatment on her while she's pregnant.”

 

 

 

He nodded his agreement. He looked like a kid who had just been told he could bring home a goldfish in a baggie from the carnival. Only the goldfish weren't usually about to multiply.

 

 

 

“I'll stop on the way home from the hospital and get some cat food. Stop giving her my white albacore tuna. I'm counting the cans before I leave.”

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Several days passed and, despite herself, Scully discovered that her curious footsteps led her into the barn each morning before she left for work and each night when she returned home. The cat had arranged a nice little nest for herself in a pile of hay in the far corner of the barn and Mulder kept fresh water and kibble available in small ceramic bowls close by. The cat was never far from the farmhouse and sometimes even joined Scully on the porch whenever she brought a book outside and settled into the swing.

 

 

 

She didn't have a name. Scully resisted the implications of becoming attached enough to give her one. They just referred to her as Kitty. She was a thoughtful animal – twice leaving dead field mice, or various rodent body parts that nearly amounted to one,  outside the screen door for them to find in the early morning hours.  Mulder theorized that it was the cat's way of paying her respects and earning her keep. She was offering them her first fruits and they ought to at least act grateful. Scully just wrinkled her nose and stepped over the carnage on her way to her vehicle, saying “That better be gone when I get home, Mulder.” 

 

 

 

Six days after the cat had made her first appearance on their property, Scully awoke to warm fingers on her cheek. The edge of the bed dipped with Mulder's weight. She squinted up at him and yawned.

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

“Cat,” he said, simply.

 

 

 

Scully sat up and looked at the alarm clock. 4:45 a.m. “What are you doing up?”

 

 

 

“I don't know. I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep. I went to the barn to feed her, but she's acting weird. I think it's time. She won't eat and she's just laying in the hay and panting. How long should it take, do you think?”

 

 

 

Scully yawned and flopped back onto the pillow, yanking the comforter over her head.

 

 

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

 

 

 

“Going back to sleep for another hour and a half before I have to shower and go to work.”

 

 

 

“Aren't you coming out to the barn?”

 

 

 

She pulled the covers down just far enough to peer at him through raised eyebrows. “To do what exactly?”

 

 

 

“I-I don't know. Help?”

 

 

 

A long sigh escaped her like a deflating balloon. “How do you propose we do that, Mulder? My kitty labor coaching skills are a little rusty. Besides, I think she's probably got it under control. It's instinctual. We'd just be in the way.”

 

 

 

“But what if something goes wrong?”

 

 

 

She softened a little and her pinky finger grazed his forearm. “Honestly, there's very little we could do it if did.”

 

 

 

He nodded, but his eyes shifted around the room. “I'm going to go out and sit anyway.”

 

 

 

Scully groaned and pushed herself up in bed, swinging her legs onto the floor. When has he ever needed her and she hasn't gone? Years ago, they had been partners. Now they were extensions of one another. Wherever thou goest, I will go.

 

 

 

She located a brown elastic band on the bedside table and pulled her long hair into a sloppy ponytail and then fished out a rugged grey Outer Banks sweatshirt and yoga pants from the dresser drawer. Of all the unexpected directions she thought her medical skills might take her, cat midwifery hadn't been one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

At 7:15 she was showered and dressed and ready for work and there was still only one cat in their barn.  Mulder gave her a pleading look when she brought him a travel thermos full of hot coffee and a buttered English muffin.

 

 

 

“What do you want me to do, Mulder? I've got 8:00 rounds.”

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket during her 10:30 meeting and she excused herself to the hallway, despite impatient looks from her colleagues. Chairs skidded and squeaked on the floor as white lab coats shifted to allow her by. “Excuse me, excuse me, sorry.” The judgmental looks were nothing new to her. The cross around her neck would only get her so far when it came to blending in. Her inquisitive and challenging nature, combined with her penchant for cutting edge, progressive medicine had earned her a reputation as somewhat of a maverick.

 

 

 

His name flashed on her cell phone window. That little flutter in her stomach when she saw it in the middle of her day. Even now, all these years later.

 

 

 

“How many?” she asked, as soon as she stepped into the hall and flipped open the phone. 

 

 

 

“Three,” he said.

 

 

 

“Really? Only three?”

 

 

 

“Only.”

 

 

 

“Are they all-”

 

 

 

“Yeah, I think so. They seem to be fine.”

 

 

 

“Did you watch the whole thing?”

 

 

 

“It's gross,” he said, and she smiled. “She ate the-the-”

 

 

 

“I know. They do that, it's okay.”

 

 

 

“There's one here that reminds me of you, Scully.”

 

 

 

“Oh really.” A tiny giggle escaped her and an intern passing by connected eyes with her briefly, probably wondering. No one knew a thing about her private life at the hospital. That she harbored a ruggedly handsome federal fugitive who pinned her beneath him at night and knew every one of her innermost secrets. “How so?”

 

 

 

“It gives me that same look you do when I interrupt its sleep. Like I'm risking life and limb.”

 

 

 

Another chuckle from her as she tucked her hair and turned in tighter to the wall to shield their conversation. “Are they nursing?”

 

 

 

“Voraciously.”

 

 

 

“Males or females?”

 

 

 

“How should I know? But there's two of one kind and one of the other.”

 

 

 

Scully's brow raised. “I'm afraid to ask.”

 

 

 

“One butt looks different than the other two.”

 

 

 

The science of feline gender determination.  “Google it,” she suggested.

 

 

 

“I figured you'd know,” he said, hopefully.

 

 

 

“How would I know?”

 

 

 

“Because you're a doctor.”

 

 

 

“I know how to tell the difference between male and female humans.”

 

 

 

“And they gave you a license for that?” he teased.

 

 

 

They could do this all day. The banter, the verbal intercourse, the flirting. She had perfected the mock annoyance, but she actually thrived on it. It had a pattern of being actual foreplay for them. She could almost predict when they'd have sex based on how frequent and intense the verbal sparring had been throughout the day. They were off to a good start.

 

 

 

Sister Buchanan came out of the conference room and headed down the hallway toward the restrooms, making a point of pursing her lips at Scully. “I have to get back to my meeting, Mulder. I'm getting dirty looks from nuns.”

 

 

 

“Okay. I'll see you tonight.”

 

 

 

“Bye.” She started to hang up.

 

 

 

“Hey, Scully?”

 

 

 

“Yes?”

 

 

 

“Thanks for doing this with me. The whole cat thing. I really, um – I really like you.” He chuckled.

 

 

 

She scrunched her forehead and laughed at the ridiculousness. Her smile brimmed and she shook her head slowly in amusement. He did this sometimes – made these cute little endearing statements and it always caught her off-guard. It didn't happen often, which was what made it meaningful. The verbal 'I love you's were rare between them and almost always happened in the dark and without clothing, but every once in awhile, he'd drop something like this in her lap when she least expected it, and she'd fall all over again.

 

 

 

“I don't hate you either,” she said quietly. “And no cats in the house, Mulder,” she smiled. 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Two weeks later there was an early frost. It wasn't even Halloween yet. Scully trudged to the barn in the middle of the night in her flannel pajamas, with Mulder following close behind and shining a flashlight in their path.

 

 

 

“What about no cats in the house, Scully?” It was her rule. He didn't care about such things and they both knew it.

 

 

 

“They're too little yet,” she said, her breath transforming the frigid air in front of her mouth into a smoky cloud. “They'll freeze to death outside.”

 

 

 

They found all four cats huddled together in their hay nest in the corner of the barn, the kittens tucked mostly underneath the mother's belly. She was trying to keep them warm the best way she could.

 

 

 

Scully picked up all three kittens, one by furry one, and tucked them into the front of her coat, which she had turned up into a makeshift sling. The mother cat mewed her protest at the separation from her young, and Mulder picked her up gently and clutched her to his chest, shushing her in low, even tones.

 

 

 

Tiny claws made scritching sounds against the canvas of Scully's coat as the kittens scrambled over one another, flopping about, in search of their mother. Their eyes and ears were all fully opened now and they had begun making sloppy attempts at standing up on weak legs that were not able to support their weight yet. Their mobility still consisted mainly of crawling about on their bellies, spending all their time either sleeping or parked blissfully at a nipple.

 

 

 

After an extensive amount of time comparing their kittens to internet photographs of cat anatomy, Mulder had informed Scully that he was at least eighty percent certain they had two male kittens and one female kitten. She took his word for it.

 

 

 

They made their way back to the farmhouse that was homey and quaint and altogether much too small for four cats, but that was okay because they weren't staying in the house. It was just for now. Just while they were too small to be in the barn. And she wasn't caving on this, no matter how adorable and sensitive Mulder might look with kittens sleeping on his lap.

 

 

 

He made a fire without asking whether he should, even though it was after two in the morning and she had to work the next day and they'd only just gotten to sleep after midnight because he had ambushed her bedtime bath yet again. The cats settled into a furry pile on an old folded blanket on the floor that Scully had provided. They nursed with renewed gusto. Mulder stretched onto the couch, pulling her down on top of him and wrapping two arms around her.

 

 

 

The fire flickered and spat and she yawned. “Should we just go upstairs?” she murmured. “I'm sure they're fine.”

 

 

 

“Mmmm, nah, this is good. Too tired to get up.”

 

 

 

She agreed, allowing herself to relax into him, elbows and thighs molding together and tucking her head into that space between his neck and shoulder that had been made just for her.

 

 

 

“What if we just kept them, Scully?” Her eyes fluttered back open and she pressed her forehead down into his buttery soft tee shirt and groaned. She had predicted this conversation, but not so soon. She had grown astute enough to recognize when he was easing her into something. “Not in the house,” he clarified. “Well, mostly not. They could be barn cats.”

 

 

 

“Mulder-” she clicked her tongue in sleepy annoyance, then sighed loudly. He skated the tips of his fingers up and down her back. She just loved how that felt and he knew it, damn him. He was soft and warm and solid under her. There was a fire casting a warm tangerine glow around the room and kittens sleeping by the hearth. Her willpower had been compromised, so she gave in and fell asleep on him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mulder's Ego**

 

Mulder was propped with both elbows bracketing her head, sipping from her lips in a series of breathless kisses. Their lower bodies were fused together, a slippery connection of hot skin and sweat and other fluids. It was fucking hot. Even with the struggling air conditioner and the ceiling fan on high, the sticky humidity of an unbearable Virginia summer night saturated their bedroom.

 

 

 

He was close, had been for awhile, but he waited for her. She had already come that morning, under the concentrated strokes of his eager tongue, when he had tackled her and pinned her to the bed as she was dressing for work. He had quickly made her undressed, despite her fake protests. Now it was fourteen hours later and he thought she might have another one in her. Her lower body tensed against his and she whimpered and dug her fingernails into his slick back. Was that it? She could be subtle about it sometimes and he hated asking. He figured after seven years, he ought to know.

 

 

 

She raised both arms above her head to grasp the headboard and whispered, “Yeah, oh yeah-” through berry plump, kiss-swollen lips and he had to slam his eyes shut momentarily to stay in the game. When he opened them, she was looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes. Her breasts bobbed gently in rhythm with his thrusts. He ducked his head to try and capture an erect nipples but it eluded him repeatedly, so he settled for swiping at it with the tip of his tongue. She moaned again and arched under him.

 

 

 

“Go ahead,” she breathed.

 

 

 

And he needed no further provocation. He rocked back onto his knees and bent one of her legs up and to the side, opening her wide to him, holding her by the ankle. He was in so deep, he could feel himself bottoming out at her cervix. He pumped feverishly, having lost all semblance of a rhythm, for half a dozen more strokes, and then tensed, pressed all the way into her tightly, and emptied himself. The loud groan from his mouth was masked by the sound of rushing blood in his ears. He let go of her leg and pitched forward onto her, catching himself with his wrists and rolling to the side to keep his weight off..  His heart galloped in his chest.

 

 

 

He slid his open mouth against her bare shoulder, kissing the pale skin and lapping up droplets of perspiration.

 

 

 

“It's too fucking hot for this, Scully. I'm an old man.”

 

 

 

She rolled in his direction and chuckled softly. “I think you did just fine.” Her fingers trailed down his chest, and she nuzzled his neck and swung one small leg over him, her thigh pinning his. He loved her legs. They were toned and strong.

 

 

 

“Just fine?  Try to temper the accolades.” He was still panting, chasing his breath.

 

 

 

“It's always good with us, you know that.” Her voice was soothing and soft.

 

 

 

But he found himself frowning in the dark, eyes open. He felt sticky and needed a towel, but couldn't quite make himself get up. “Scully?”

 

 

 

“Hmmmmm?” She sounded mellow, teetering on the edge of slumber.

 

 

 

“Did you come?”

 

 

 

“What?” More alert now, cautious. “What do you mean?”

 

 

 

“Really, Scully? Don't make me spell it out. Did you come, climax, get off, have the Big O?”

 

 

 

She shifted in his arms.

 

 

 

“I'm not talking about early this morning when I went down on you.” He felt her tense, unused to him putting words to what was pretty much her favorite thing on earth.  “I mean during intercourse. Just now. Did you come?”

 

 

 

“Mulder-” she sighed and made a click of the tongue.

 

 

 

It was enough of an answer for him. “Scully, why did you tell me to go ahead...if you weren't finished yet?”

 

 

 

“Because it would have taken too long. You were almost there.”

 

 

 

She continued skimming his chest with her fingers and he reached for her wrist and held her hand still.

 

 

 

“I could have waited. I'm not sixteen.” He was trying to keep the petulance out of his voice, but sensed that he wasn't being very successful.

 

 

 

“Mulder, you are making far too big a deal out of this.” She untangled herself from him and walked naked to the bathroom, shaking her head dismissively. He followed her.

 

 

 

A very dim light came on and the shower started up. She used the toilet while waiting for the water to get hot. Mulder leaned on the door frame, watching her go about her business, apparently unfazed by the fact that she had just effectively destroyed every last ounce of his sexual confidence.

 

 

 

She stepped into the shower and once again, he followed her. “So...it doesn't bother you that you just admitted to mediocre sex? Because I have to say, Scully, I don't think I'm okay with this.” He stood  at the dry end of the shower with his back to the tiles. The chill felt good against his overheated skin.

 

 

 

“Who said anything about it being mediocre? Jesus, Mulder, this is ridiculous. And do you mind? I'm trying to take a shower here.” She tilted her head back and began to wet her hair.

 

 

 

He handed her the shampoo. “But you didn't finish.”

 

 

 

Her look was one of impatience as she massaged lather into her hair. “I don't every single time. Please tell me this isn't news to you.”

 

 

 

“It isn't,” he sort of lied. “It's just that you made those sounds and I thought maybe...and now I'm just wondering how many other times I thought maybe.”

 

 

 

Her head was tilted back, rinsing, her long hair reaching almost to her behind. God, he loved her long hair. He knew it drove her crazy sometimes and she often pulled it back, but he adored when she wore it down. He loved when it was draped across the pillow next him while she slept and he loved how it slid through his fingers when he cupped the back of her head to kiss her.

 

 

 

She raised her head and slid her hands back over her slickened hair and then opened her eyes to study him through wet lashes. “Mulder.” A pronounced sigh and a dip of the head. “I made those sounds because I was enjoying myself. Making love to you is enjoyable to me whether or not I reach climax. And most of the time I do, you know that.”

 

 

 

“I do?”

 

 

 

She leveled him with a look. “Please don't tell me you think I've been faking it all these years?”

 

 

 

He gave a half-hearted shrug. It was possible that he was being a bit of a self-pitying ass, but he couldn't help it.

 

 

 

“Oh please. You can't be serious. You know how long it takes me sometimes. Don't you think that if I was going to fake it, I wouldn't wait twenty minutes in to start putting on the act.” The edge of her mouth curled up slightly and her eyes twinkled at him in amusement. Then she dipped her head back and closed her eyes, letting her mouth fall into a pouty O. “Ooooh Mulder, Oh yeah...faster...Oh God.....Oh Mulder.....yes, yes, yes, right there!  Oh God, harder Mulder, harder!”

 

 

 

“That doesn't even sound like you.”

 

 

 

“I KNOW!” She tossed the wet washcloth at him. It landed on his face and slid off. “See, I can't fake it. And I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, even if I could. I want the real deal.”

 

 

 

She tugged him into the stream of water with her and reached around to squeeze his ass, teasingly.  

 

He eyed her, from beneath a lingering pout that he wasn't ready to relinquish just yet. He'd milk it for all it was worth.

 

 

 

Her lip popped out to mock him. “Are we still nursing a bruised ego?” She kissed his shoulder. “Or am I allowed to dry off and go to bed now?”

 

 

 

“I'm sorry, it's just that...I like to get the job done, you know?"

 

 

 

Her tiny frame slumped again and her head lolled forward in frustration. “Come on, Mulder.  How many times do I have to say it? I enjoy having sex with you. I am satisfied with our sex life.”

 

 

 

He nodded, thoughtfully, running his large hands along her slender sides and then thumbing the undersides of her full breasts. “So....supposing we're just talking about intercourse for a moment....how about some percentages?”

 

 

 

Her forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean? Like how often I ….” 

 

 

 

“Yeah. How often you.”

 

 

 

She sighed. “Wow, this ego's gonna take some work, huh.”

 

 

 

He tilted his head, waiting.

 

 

 

She grabbed the shampoo and squeezed a quarter-sized dollop onto her palm. Then she spun him gently and began massaging it into his scalp. He leaned his head back so she could reach without straining. “Seventy-five percent with me on top; fifty to sixty with you on top. Roughly. Without manual intervention.”

 

 

 

“Only half? You always say you love me on top.”

 

 

 

“I do. It's the most intimate position. To kiss you so deeply while you're moving inside me is the best feeling ever.”

 

 

 

She was right, it was.  “But you on top is better.”

 

 

 

“It's not better. I just have an easier time...finishing that way. I can control everything about it.”

 

 

 

Why wasn't he surprised? “You do tend to get carried away when you're driving.” He smiled at the thought and her fingernails scored his scalp in response.  “Better watch out, Scully, or you'll wake the dead.” She giggled and began soaping his back. It was wishful thinking and they both knew it. He had amazing stamina for a guy his age, but he'd still need another hour or so before he'd be ready to launch again. Twice in one night wasn't out of the question these days, but it wasn't a frequent occurrence either.

 

 

 

“What about when I'm behind you?” he asked, tentatively. He loved the feel of it, but it made him come too quickly, so they didn't do it that way often. He wondered if she found the position impersonal, but she seemed to enjoy it, even to the point of protesting when he'd pull out of her and turn her over because he was getting too close.

 

 

 

Her lathered hands went to his buttocks and then slid to the front and he inhaled sharply. “Mmmmm, I'd say....perhaps ninety percent,” she purred.

 

 

 

His face jerked back to make eye contact with her. “Really? Ninety? Nine, zero? Jesus.”

 

 

 

She smiled demurely at him, and if he thought for a minute that he could get a sustainable erection, he would've pinned her to the wall in about three seconds flat. “It's all in the angle,” she said, smirking.

 

 

 

He just gaped back at her. “I'll remember that.”

 

 

 

He was a soapy mess. He probably hadn't been this clean in his life, but her hands were still busy, caressing every last inch of his body appreciatively. She was done washing him. Now she was just teasing. It was one of the things he loved most about her – she was a big fucking tease. It was the little things. The way she'd pass through the living room while he was reading on the couch and trail one fingernail along the back of his bare neck. How she'd be eating a bowl of ice cream and would painstakingly lick every last drop off the back of her spoon while she knew he was watching her. How she'd pad back into the bedroom after her morning shower, wearing nothing more than a tiny scrap of cotton that supposedly qualified as underwear, and lean over the side of their bed to give him his good morning kiss, her long, wet hair soaking his pillow and her tiny pink nipples teasing his chest hairs.  If cock tease had been a course of study, she could have majored.

 

 

 

“It's getting steamy in here,” he observed, his chin to his chest and the stream of water drilling the back of his neck.

 

 

 

“Is it?” Her voice was husky and raw. “I hadn't noticed.”

 

 

 

Fucking tease.

 

 

 

One of her arms snaked around to palm his abdomen and he grabbed it and spun around, taking her with him. He heard her gasp and then all of a sudden her back was molded to his front and he was pressed tightly behind her, one hand on her hip, the other cupping her breast. She shuddered and turned her head to the side in surrender.

 

 

 

His large hand skated over her skin to cup her mons roughly and she moaned. He parted her and slipped just the tip of his middle finger in, only up to the first knuckle, and began a slow circular serenade of her clitoris. Her labia were slightly swollen and he hoped it was just from arousal and not from the friction of their previous encounter.

 

 

 

He bent to kiss the slope of her neck lovingly, and whispered into her ear. “Are you sore?”

 

 

 

She shook her head, her breath coming in quick little pants. “Not sore. But you can't....again so soon, can you?” Her slender hand reached back to touch him. He was half-mast at best. With a lot of work, it could probably happen, but he didn't want this to be about him.

 

 

 

“No, but you can,” he said, inserting two fingers into her. She gasped and then arched. He sucked on her bare shoulder. He'd apologize for the mark later.

 

 

 

His hand quickened and she pressed into him, putting a palm flat to the tile wall to support herself. He cradled her against him so she wouldn't fall. He knew her body well, knew when to escalate his strokes and when to increase the pressure. She used to give him gentle directions, years ago, when they were still discovering each others' bodies. “A little faster...longer strokes....press harder....”  or when he was really on the right track, “Don't stop, don't stop.” Once in awhile, she'd even grasp his hand and show him. She didn't need to do that anymore. He knew all the steps, like a well-rehearsed dance. Now he mostly got, “Yes, yes,” or  “Oh God” to affirm that he was hitting all the magical spots. Sometimes just his name, rolling off her tongue, a breathy afterthought as she quaked against his hand.  

 

 

 

His mouth opened in a wicked grin against her shoulder and he eased off the pressure. “Should I let you? I'm not sure you're ready,” he said, realizing she just might kill him.

 

 

 

“Mulderrr, Oh God,” she hissed through gritted teeth as she thrust her hips forward desperately. “Are you kidding me?”

 

 

 

He chuckled and picked up the pace again. She was edging, not desperately yet, but enough. This teasing, combined with the build-up from earlier, and he knew she was coming up on one hell of an orgasm. He clutched her tighter to him and brought his other hand down. Three fingers went inside her and curled forward and she whimpered. He stroked her hard and fast with his other hand until she cried out and he felt her internal muscles clamp down tight and then release in a series of quick pulses. Her legs trembled beneath her and she slumped against him, spent and breathing heavily.

 

 

 

He pulled his hand out of her and held her up, kissing the side of her face tenderly before opening the shower door to reach for a towel. She let him carry her to the bed.

 

 

 

Now he felt better about the whole thing.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Tell Me About Him**

 

It was happening again. It had been six months since the last time. It seemed like she was going longer in between than she did in the beginning. In those first two years, it was at least every other month, but the stress from being on the run could have been a contributing factor.

 

The first time it occurred, she had locked him out of their hotel room when he went for a run and he finally coaxed the manager to let him in the room after listening to her sob on the other side of the door for three hours. He had considered kicking the fucking door in, but figured risking vandalism charges wasn't his smartest move, so he sat in the hall and talked to her. She cried and told him she was fine; she just needed to be alone for awhile.

 

When he had finally gotten inside the hotel room, he found her curled on her side on top of the bed, naked and shaking, her damp hair plastered to the side of her cheek. The hotel manager asked if they needed an ambulance and tried to look past Mulder to see the crazy naked woman on the bed, but Mulder shut the door in his face, thanking him for his concern. Then he immediately began shoving their meager belongings into duffel bags, dumping loose toiletries haphazardly on top of underwear and wadded jeans, dirty clothes mixing with clean. Suspicions had been aroused. They couldn't risk it. "We have to move on, Scully." She shivered, glassy-eyed and unresponsive. He pushed her noodle limp arms into a sweatshirt and she complied, stepping into cotton panties. He drove them eighty miles to a new motel room that didn't require ID and checked them in at 2:30 a.m. It took him three trips from the car to get everything plus Scully inside. She only vomited once during that first episode. In retrospect, it was one of the easier ones.

 

The next morning, he rolled over to find the bed empty and the sound of the shower running. He opened the bathroom door and stepped in cautiously, dense humid air immediately clearing his sinuses.

 

"Scully? Are you okay?"

 

"I'm fine. Can you please hand me my razor, Mulder? It's on the bathroom counter."

 

He picked up the pink disposable and slipped it around the edge of the shower curtain until wet fingers grasped it. "Thanks. I haven't shaved my legs in four days; I don't know how you can stand it," she giggled.

 

He frowned in confusion and blinked at the tiny shadow he saw moving on the other side of the curtain.

 

"Hey, let's find some breakfast," she said. "I'm famished. Do you think there's a diner anywhere around here?"

 

"Probably." He scratched his bare chest and sat down on the closed toilet seat to wait for her, giving some thought to antidepressants and how one might go about obtaining them illegally.      

 

At breakfast, she ate like a horse. A stack of pancakes, eggs, fruit, bacon. Mulder nursed some black coffee and picked at soggy toast. His appetite had taken a hike some twelve hours ago when she had decided to go all Cuckoo's Nest on him without warning.

 

"Scully, I don't understand."

 

"Understand what?" She layered a bite of pancake on top of a bite of eggs on top of some bacon and sank her mouth over it. Mulder wrinkled his nose. She was Jabba the Hut in size 4 Levis. She motioned to the waitress for more orange juice and asked if they had scones. They did not, thank God.

 

"I don't understand what happened last night."

 

She continued eating without even a pause. A brow arched at him and she gestured to her plate. "Try a bite of the pancakes. They're awesome."

"No, thanks. I'm um...not hungry."

 He waited. She ate. He sat back in the booth and crossed his arms.

 When all that remained was half a slice of rye toast, she pushed her plate away and wiped her mouth with a wrinkled napkin. "God, that was good. I'm stuffed."

 Ya think?

 

Mulder studied her with undisguised concern. "So what - I'm just supposed to forget about it? Pretend it didn't happen? You locked me out of our room, cried until your eyes were red and swollen and then trembled your way to sleep in my arms last night, but now you're good. I'm just supposed to chalk this up to a bitching case of PMS."

 

She clicked her tongue and averted her eyes. The Queen of Avoidance was holding full court at the moment. He stared at her unwaiveringly and she finally looked up, her eyes pleading mercy.

 

He wasn't going to let her off. "I was worried, Scully. I think I deserve a little more than you're giving me here."

 

She sighed deeply and reached across the speckled formica table top for his hand. He curled his fingers around hers. "It happens sometimes. It's been happening since....since I gave him....since he's been gone."

 

Mulder bit his bottom lip and squeezed her hand gently. It had been his first instinct, that it had something to do with their son. Thank God he hadn't suggested she might be pregnant, although it had crossed his mind with how often they had been going at it. A miracle had happened once, so who was to say. There hadn't been birth control, nary the mention of it.  

 

"He's here," her free hand went to her chest and rested there while she closed her eyes, "always. Every second of every day, he's here. But if I let myself feel it all the time, I just..." her eyes flooded and she glanced down at her lap. "I couldn't function if I let myself feel it all the time, so I don't. I feel it in concentrated amounts, over a day, maybe two. And then I go on." She sipped at her coffee and Mulder stared at her, feeling a swelling in his chest.

 "Maybe there's something that can be done, a medication-"

 

"I don't want to be medicated for it, Mulder." Her eyes were sharp for a moment and he could've sworn he saw the shadow of resentment. It was what he always assumed was there, but they didn't discuss. He had left her. He hadn't wanted to, but there had been no choice. And had things been different, had he been there with them, to protect them, he was pretty certain they'd still have their child. He knew it and so did she.

 

"I don't want medication," she repeated. "It's not a sickness. And there's no treatment. It's just the way things are."

 

And it was. Six weeks later it happened again and then two months after that.

 

Now, six years later,  he stood on the other side of their closed bedroom door, listening to her again. The cries were subtle this time, not wracking sobs like they sometimes were. He tried the door knob. It turned easily in his hand and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he was being allowed to share in this, her grief. Sometimes he wasn't. And when that happened, he'd curl up under a thin cotton blanket on the couch downstairs, fully clothed, and wait for her to let him back in. He much preferred when she'd take him with her into her darkness. His grief needed somewhere to go too.

He walked into their bedroom quietly. The shades were drawn and only a few narrow unwelcome strips of light painted the hardwoods. He shed his clothing, down to his underwear and peeled back the comforter, climbing in and sliding to the middle where she was huddled in one of his worn tee shirts and her panties. His arms wrapped her like a snug glove and she settled, sniffling and quaking in sporadic tremors.

He kissed her wet cheekbone, her temple, her fingers where they laced with his. "I'm here," his voice washed over her. "What do you need, Honey? I'm right here."

She was quiet for several long minutes and he wondered if maybe she'd just fall asleep, but then she whispered to him, "Tell me about him."

Mulder took a deep, cleansing breath. He thought about the falling leaves outside and the crisp autumn air while the thoughts took shape in his head.

"He went pumpkin picking this weekend. He looked forward to it all week and school seemed to drag on forever. He was preoccupied during his spelling quiz Friday afternoon, but he still got a hundred. He always does on spelling; he gets that from you. It rained Friday night and when he went to sleep, all snug in his warm bed listening to it, he was sad to think they might have to wait another day. But the sun was shining Saturday morning and he went. He got four pumpkins, three big ones and a small one that was shaped funny and he took it because he was afraid nobody else would."

 

Scully's breathing evened and she sniffled. "Did he carve them?"

 

"Of course. Well, all but the small funny looking one because he wanted that one to last the longest and  if you carve them, they don't last as long. He put the three large carved ones on the front porch and the small one in his bedroom. He drew a silly face on it with colored Sharpies."

 

She hummed with her eyes closed and pulled the comforter up under her chin. "More," she said.

 

Mulder tucked the blankets tighter around them both and kissed her again, smoothing her hair with his palm. "He wants to be The Lorax for Halloween. It's his favorite book. He's going to make his own costume - he's very creative that way. All of his friends will be super heroes and Darth Vaders and mummies. He'll be the only Lorax in his class, but he doesn't care what everyone else thinks because he's not afraid to be different."

 

"He gets that from you," she said, her soft voice cracking.

"Yeah, I guess he does."

Mulder talked some more, weaving stories about climbing trees and catching fireflies and about a little boy with brown hair and blue eyes and freckles, who daydreamed and loved cherry popsicles and laughed until he got the hiccups.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Exoneration**

 

 

The piece of paper was lying open on the dining room table when she got home from a late shift. Next to it was an electric bill, a bank statement, two credit card offers, and a medical journal, all addressed to her. All of the mail came addressed to her. He technically didn't exist. After she read over the words on the paper, she realized that would be changing.

 

 

 

It was on official FBI letterhead. A notice of exoneration. It was what had been promised him following the case, and here it was. She picked it up and it felt hot and heavy in her hands.

 

 

 

It wasn't that she didn't want this, for him or for herself. She just wasn't entirely certain what “this” was yet. They had been prisoners of their situation for so long that she had no idea how to envision a different kind of life, or even if they could have one together.

 

 

 

She carried it with her and knocked briefly on his office door before opening it. His back was to her and his fingers traveled quickly over a keyboard. The room smelled of stale coffee and that very faint, yet distinct mustiness of an old house.

 

 

 

“What's up, Doc?” His standard greeting for her. He didn't turn around or stop typing.

 

 

 

“I see they made good on their promise.” There was no need for a more elaborate lead-in. It had been  weeks since the case ended and they had both been wondering. The FBI knew for certain where he was now. They could do with him as they pleased, not that she had ever had any doubt that they could have found him years ago had they cared to. She had stopped hiding four years ago, had been working as a doctor for almost three now. Anyone within the Bureau with half a brain cell knew that a red hot trail from Dana Scully would lead directly to Fox Mulder.

 

 

 

His chair swiveled and he leaned back, regarding her with eyes that revealed nothing. “Indeed, they have.”

 

 

 

So now what, was the question that went through her mind. “What do you want to do for dinner?” was what came out of her mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

****** 

 

 

 

 

 

It went back on the table and sat there for three more days. Other mail came and joined it briefly, was opened and discarded or dealt with. The ivory stationary sat, a fingerprint smudge, probably from newsprint, the only evidence that the paper had even been touched in seventy-two hours.

 

 

 

“I have five days off, starting Friday” she said in between bites of rare steak, even though Mulder told her she should know better than to eat it that way.

 

 

 

One or two days off at a time was the norm. The last time she had any more than three days off in succession was a year ago when there had been a freak snow storm and all major roads between their house and the hospital had been closed. She could take vacation whenever she wanted to; she had accrued plenty. But what was the point, really, when it wasn't as if she and Mulder had been able to take off and go somewhere like normal people.

 

 

 

He eyed her curiously. “What are your plans?”

 

 

 

It was an innocent enough question. She shrugged. “None yet, really.” Ho nodded absently and they continued eating in silence. Scully considered using the knife from her steak to try and cut through the air in the room, but concluded even that might not be sharp enough.

 

 

 

“We could do something,” she said, tentatively. “Go somewhere. Or not.”

 

 

 

He finished his food and placed his silverware at the three o'clock position and then leaned back in his chair to observe the ceiling, fingers laced behind his head. “We could,” he offered, reflectively. “I guess I can do that now, can't I?”

 

 

 

She pushed her plate away with food left uneaten and steepled her fingers in front of her on the table. Her reply came as nearly a whisper. “You can do anything you want to now, Mulder.”

 

 

 

He looked at her and his eyes narrowed. “What if I don't know what that is?”

 

 

 

Her cheeks felt warm. She wouldn't dance around this with him. She would not. She had just always assumed. But maybe she had been foolish to do so. He had his life back. A fresh start. Freedom to do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted. And with whomever he wanted. Or alone.

 

 

 

She got up from the table and stacked plates and silverware hastily, metal clanking loudly against ceramic. Turning too quickly from the table, silverware slid off the top of the plate and skittered across the floor, spraying leftover vegetables in an arc on the tiles. She swore under her breath and bent down.

 

 

 

Silently, he got up and went for the paper towels. When he squatted next to her and began mopping up steamed broccoli, she felt his hand rest on her lower back. “What did I say?”

 

 

 

She closed her eyes and sighed without answering, then stood and finished carrying things to the sink. Dishes were rinsed and stacked and she did her best to ignore the eyes that were burning holes into the back of her.

 

 

 

“Scully-”

 

 

 

She palmed the lever of the faucet hard, cutting the water off and then turned to face him, arms crossed. “I'm happy for you, Mulder. You're a free man now. You have your life back and you can go anywhere and do anything you want to. I think that's-” her voice waivered and she stopped and put the back of her hand to her mouth before continuing. “I'm....happy for you.”

 

 

 

His expression was one of confusion. So as if her emotions hadn't already gotten the best of her and she hadn't done enough damage, she dug her heels in deeper and squared her shoulders. “You don't have to stay here, Mulder, if you don't want to. There's no reason to feel obligated to-to-to whatever this is.”

 

 

 

Fuck. She didn't want to do this. It had been so much easier when there were no choices.

 

 

 

His mouth was slack and he shook his head slowly. He looked like he had just been slapped. “Is that what you think, Scully?” His voice was mere decibels above a whisper. “That I'm here because I feel obligated?”

 

 

 

“You didn't choose this life, Mulder. And frankly, neither did I.” That's it, Dana. Go for an artery. Self-defense always teaches you that if you're going to strike, make it count.         

 

 

 

His head tilted a few degrees and the liquid in his eyes made her stomach burn like acid. “I see,” he said, simply. He bit his lip and nodded slowly, a hardness settling over his features. Then he calmly turned and walked back into his office and closed the door behind him.

 

 

 

She stood, unmoving, with her arms crossed, staring down at a tiny chip in the corner of a floor tile. Hardly noticeable unless one was looking for it. The memory of how it happened came flooding back to her. The day they moved in, warm and balmy late summer air and the threat of a thunderstorm on the horizon. Her long hair twisted and clipped up off her neck, frayed cut-off denim shorts and a tank top.

 

 

 

A loose handle on a kitchen cupboard and she went for the Phillip's head to try and fix it. But the screw was stripped and she swore and dropped the screwdriver onto the counter in frustration. And then large hands were on her hips, lifting and turning her until her ass made contact with the counter and his hot lips claimed hers roughly. She giggled into his mouth and mumbled a weak suggestion about getting more unpacking done before they got too carried away, but then his hand under her tank top and cupping her braless tit made it clear that it was too late for that. Her legs went around his waist and she remembered hearing the screwdriver slide from the counter and onto the floor with an audible clink, metal making contact with ceramic.

 

 

 

She looked down at the chip now and her eyes swamped.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

She faced the wall, her eyes open and unblinking as the digits on the clock turned to 1:16 and she felt the mattress dip with his weight. He'd sense she wasn't sleeping. They knew these things about one another. And everything else. She felt him settle next to her and lay motionless.

 

 

 

“I'm not here because I feel obligated. I'm not here because I don't have anywhere else to go. I'm not here because I want someone in my bed at night.” His voice was calm, like this wasn't the first time he'd rehearsed this little speech.

 

 

 

She rolled onto her back. “Mulder, I didn't mean-”

 

 

 

“Stop talking, Scully. Shut up and listen. Can you please just-”

 

 

 

She was quiet and concentrated on slowing her breathing in the dark next to him. Their bodies didn't touch, but he was so close to her that she could feel the heat of him, familiar and alive.

 

 

 

“I'm here because I choose to be. Because I love you, because I'm in love with you and have been for longer than I care to admit. When I said I didn't know what I wanted, I didn't mean us. Out of this whole big fucked up mess that resembles my life, that's about the only thing I am sure of.”

 

 

 

She bit her lip hard and swiped at one wet cheek, but didn't interrupt. His vulnerability was shattering her in ways she hadn't counted on.

 

 

 

“We don't talk about this, Scully. I don't know why we don't, but we don't. But there it is, that's how I feel.” She felt him draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly.  “But if you don't feel the same way, then I guess there's not much to talk about.”

 

 

 

She rolled to face him then, one hand reaching up to cup his stubbly cheek, and a sob escaped her. “I'm sorry,” she said, her strangled voice coming in whispered fits. “I'm so sorry.”

 

 

 

He pressed his nose to hers. “Don't be. I know this isn't the life you wanted. You deserve so much more than this.”

 

 

 

She shook her head and the fingers sifting through his hair clenched involuntarily as she kissed him. His lips were soft and yielding and his eyes were open, darting back and forth between her own, searching her.

 

 

 

“I chose this,” she said, with her mouth pressed to his temple.  “And I'd do it all over again.”

 

 

 

His cheek was damp against her hand. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him shed tears. His strong arm slid under her pillow to encircle her shoulders and pull her closer until they were in a full embrace, lying on their sides.

 

 

 

Her breathing slowed and she relaxed into him and sighed deeply. “It feels so strange,” she said. “No longer having to hide, being able to do whatever we want to. I feel like....I don't know how to feel.”

 

 

 

“I know. It's okay. Nothing has to change.” Then he pulled his face back and looked at her pointedly, his eyes reflecting filtered moonlight and ten different shades of emotion. “Or it can.”

 

 

 

She tilted her head and questioned him with her eyes, wondering if this was really going where she thought it might be, suddenly unsure how she felt about the idea, and panicked that she didn't know. 

 

 

 

“We have options now that we never had before, Scully.”

 

 

 

Oh God.

 

 

 

“We could, you know...do something more permanent,” he said, matter-of-factly. She held her breath.

 

 

 

It wasn't like it hadn't ever entered a conversation between them before. But until now, it hadn't been a real possibility for him. And now it was. Would this be one of those moments she'd remember for the rest of her life and think about what she did or didn't say? She couldn't handle even one more regret in her life.     

 

 

 

“Is that what you want?” she whispered, still seeking a foothold.

 

 

 

He was quiet for what was realistically only seconds, but for what felt like time stretched into infinity. “I just want you. For the rest of my life. Whatever that looks like.”

 

 

 

Her lip trembled and she pressed her face to his, her breath hitching and whispered into his ear, “You have that. You already have that.”

 

 

 

She drifted off tucked into him, the soft wisps of his breath against her cheek.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Early morning sun warmed her face when she awoke. She had slept late, not having to be at the hospital until nine that morning. The bed was empty next to her, the sheets warm and rumpled and his pillow in a wad. She was about to roll out of bed and go wandering for him when he entered the bedroom carrying two mugs of coffee.

 

 

 

He wore a pair of navy boxers, a smile, and nothing else. She couldn't help but admire how toned he was for a man his age, a sudden wave of desire causing her to draw a breath and flush slightly. A glance at the alarm clock told her that even the quick and dirty version was probably out of the question if she wanted time to shower. And besides, after last night, she'd want more than drive-thru sex.

 

 

 

His eyes connected with hers and he seemed to read her mind. He placed both coffee mugs down on her nightstand and took a swan dive over her and the bed bounced and squeaked. She giggled at his boyishness and he pulled her on top of him and into a deep kiss. His fingertips tickled her back underneath her pajama top.

 

 

 

Their lips separated reluctantly and he continued nipping at hers, his eyes sleepy. “What time do you have to be there?”

 

 

 

“Mmm, nine.”

 

 

 

“How about nine-thirty?” he suggested in a muffled voice as he dipped his face into her cleavage and his hands drifted down to cup her bottom.

 

 

 

She chuckled. “Nine. Sorry, I have a meeting.”

 

 

 

He sighed and rested his head back on the pillow in acquiescence. “So I was thinking about your time off. Let's go away together.”

 

 

 

She smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

 

 

 

He gently rolled her off of him and then slid out of the bed. His boxers were bunched up at the legs and she couldn't help but notice his evident arousal. It made her look at the clock and do the math again, only be be disappointed.

 

 

 

He bent and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. “You'll need this,” he said, smiling as her black bikini sailed onto the bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Island**

 

 

Sea air always made her sleep like a baby. She rolled naked and blinky-eyed from the cotton sheets that were already moist with humidity and felt her way to the bathroom. She had no idea what time it was, hadn't really since they'd arrived two days ago. What was the point? They slept when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, swam during low tide, and made love pretty much the remainder of the time. Four or five so far. She had lost count. It stung a little when she peed.

 

 

 

The cabana was quiet, except for the constant sound of the surf. His sneakers were missing. She looked  out the sliding glass door that faced the beach, wondering if she'd be able to see his head bobbing somewhere in the distance as he ran, but saw nothing but white sand as far as the eye could see. They were on the far edge of the point with a quarter mile of beach all to themselves. She didn't want to think about what Mulder had paid for this little corner of paradise.

 

 

 

She shimmied into yesterday's bikini, pushed her way out through the screen door, and flopped into the hammock where she promptly fell back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

"Want my pickle?"

 

 

 

She arched a brow at him and smiled, trying to choose among so many possible witty comebacks. He held it out to her, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and she bit it right out of his grip without losing eye contact.

 

 

 

They ate sandwiches and sliced pineapple while sitting on a blanket in the shade. Her shoulders were getting pink. She needed to apply more sunblock and to try and remember to stay out of the sun during the mid-day. Her freckles ran wild on her face, breeding uncontrollably in the UV rays. Mulder just got darker and darker, his smooth cinnamon skin looking good enough to sink her teeth into, which gave her some ideas. She had brought along three novels and she was barely halfway through the first. She had forgotten how distracting sun-kissed Mulder skin was. 

 

 

 

She finished eating and stretched her legs out in Mulder's lap, lying on her back with her sunhat perched over her face. He tickled that spot under her knee and she kicked her leg gently in protest, so he settled for kissing the inside of her ankle. "I love this spot," he said, as the tip of his hot tongue punctuated her skin. She sighed contentedly and his fingers crept higher on her leg.

 

 

 

"Looks like rain. Maybe we should head in and take a nap."

 

 

 

Scully peeked out from under her hat to blue, cloudless sky. "You're insatiable," she smiled. How?  At forty-seven. He had the libido of a man half his age. She should be thankful and most of the time she was. When she hadn't already gone four or five rounds in less than forty-eight hours. "Would this nap include actual sleep?"

 

 

 

"Sure." His thumb was tracing the edge of her bikini bottoms now. "Might not be limited to sleep, but it could include it."

 

 

 

She stilled his hand with her own and then rolled over to peek up at him. "You might need to give me a little break, Mulder. Think Muddy Gap."

 

 

 

She didn't even have to search his face for recognition. After they left Roswell six years ago, they drove for days, taking every back road imaginable until they made their way into Wyoming and to a nothing little one stoplight town called Muddy Gap. They checked into a motor lodge that was miles from any highway and accepted cash without questions. It was an attempt to shake any heat that was on their tail and also figure out a plan. Instead, they spent four days making love. Day and night. At the end of it, Scully had a raging case of cystitis and was running a fever. She dyed her hair brassy blonde, donned sunglasses and a baseball cap, and paid five hundred dollars cash to a seventy-year-old backwoods doctor to acquire a ten- day supply of Amoxicillin.

 

 

 

He pulled her in and kissed the top of her hair. "Why didn't you say something?"

 

 

 

"Because it's nothing yet. Just a little tenderness." She rolled on top of him and nudged his coiled chest hairs with her nose, inhaling his clean, earthy scent. "In the meantime..."

 

 

 

She slid tightly down his body with knees on either side of his hips and edged one fingernail under the waistband of his swim trunks. His chest puffed with air and his folded arms went beneath his head to prop himself. Such a visual creature, he loved to watch.

 

 

 

One hand up inside the leg hole of his trunks to skim his perineum and he was instantly stiff. "Out here?" he croaked.

 

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

 

She locked eyes with him and licked her lips, knowing full well what that did to him. He swallowed hard and lifted his hips so she could tug his shorts down. His penis jumped at her like an overexcited puppy. She held him steady with one soft palm while she teased just the head with the concentrated tip of her tongue. After several minutes of that, his hand was at the back of her head, clutching her sea-soaked hair. 

 

 

 

He panted and relaxed his thighs open wider, begging her with hooded eyes and that bottom lip that wouldn't quit. She wanted to bite it until he whimpered. Instead, she took pity on him and sank her throat all the way down until her lips bottomed out against his pubic hair, held it for a few seconds, then slid back up slowly until he popped out of her mouth. His cock snapped back against his groin with an audible slap. He was wound tighter than a drum.

 

 

 

"More?" she teased with a smirk and one palm to his balls.

 

 

 

"Fuuuck." It came out as a combination of a hiss and a groan. His fingers tangled in her hair and his thighs trembled. She worked him without relenting until his hips were lifting off the blanket each time he tensed and released. He didn't have to warn her anymore. She knew the signs. But he always did anyway because he was a gentleman.

 

 

 

"Sculleee," he sputtered weakly, but she stayed down and rode it out, managing most all of it in two long swallows. Coming up for air finally, she swiped at a few errant drops from her lips with an index finger and a swirl of her tongue before snaking her way back up his heaving torso to collapse on her back.

 

 

 

"Mmmm," she sighed. "I think I'm ready for that nap." He panted next to her like a flopped fish.  

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

They spent the next afternoon wandering the mainland because she insisted that there should be more to a vacation than just sunbathing and making love, although she could tell Mulder was dubious. He was patient as she fingered seashell necklaces and the flimsy fabric of native-made sundresses. Occasionally he pulled one out that looked like it should be worn by a twenty-something year old and held it up to her appreciatively. She settled on a white beaded halter dress that was composed of less fabric than anything else she owned. She'd probably never wear it again after this vacation, but what the hell. 

 

 

 

She got her hair braided in corn rows and her toenails painted rose petal pink. They bought a bottle of rum and almost outran the storm clouds on their way back to the cabana. Thoroughly drenched and laughing, they tossed their bags onto the rattan sofa before stripping out of their wet clothing. When he knelt to peel her khaki shorts from her body, his hot tongue blazed a trail up her inner thigh to the lace edge of her panties. She tipped back onto the bed and closed her eyes, listening to the drumming of hard rain on the thatched roof. If only they could stay there forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Scully sipped at her sangria and eyed him from beneath thick lashes. "You're staring, Mulder."

 

 

 

"You're gorgeous."

 

 

 

She huffed out a short laugh and averted her eyes, her cheeks coloring, and fingered the stem of her glass self-consciously.

 

 

 

An amber glow from candlelight flickered in the scant breeze. It was a warm evening, their last night of vacation, and they sat at a terrace table in a quiet corner of a mainland restaurant. She wore the white sundress she had purchased the day before and a coral necklace. Her skin had a healthy glow from days in the sun and he couldn't ever remember seeing her look this relaxed and sublime. She was always beautiful to him, but right now, she looked ten years younger.

 

 

 

"Let's stay here forever," he said, mostly serious.

 

 

 

She smiled. "I have a job, Mulder."

 

 

 

"You could work here. I'm sure the island could use another doctor. People would bring you chickens and mangos in exchange for your services."

 

 

 

She laughed. "And what would you do?"

 

 

 

"I'd be your cabana boy. Bring you little drinks with umbrellas in them and spread suntan lotion on your back. Other services available upon request." He toggled his brows.

 

 

 

She sighed and reached across the table to caress the back of his hand. "Tempting. It has been wonderful."

 

 

 

"We'd need to invest in a ridiculous amount of sunblock for you. However, we'd likely save thousands on your shoe collection since you'd either go barefoot or wear sandals all the time. How many pairs of sandals can one woman need?"

 

 

 

She smirked and arched a brow at him. That many, huh?

 

 

 

A mustached man playing a mandolin drifted to their table, grinning widely and playing a slow lilting tune. Scully suppressed a tight-lipped smile and released Mulder's hand, taking a long swallow of her drink. The musician swayed with his song and his dark eyes twinkled as he looked from Scully to Mulder. "Honeymoon, yes?" he nodded.

 

 

 

Mulder startled and shook his head no. Scully's cheeks flamed and she drank again.

 

 

 

"Ah, anniversary," the man said cheerfully.

 

 

 

"No, no, just vacation," said Mulder, tipping the musician.

 

 

 

The man tilted his head in acknowledgment, then bent toward Scully, almost conspiratorially while keeping his gaze trained on Mulder. "I see a man in love." Scully's lips parted and she looked down at the table awkwardly. The musician moved on and a waiter came to collect their empty dishes and present them with dessert menus.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

They strolled on the white sand, barefoot with fingers laced. A gibbous moon cast shimmers on the water and a salty breeze blew the gauzy material of Scully's dress in billows around her legs. They were a long way from their cabana, the light from it shining as small as a firefly in the distance, and still they saw no one on the empty beach.

 

 

 

He pulled her closer to the surf until the foam bubbled between their toes and sand shifted underfoot, making it harder to walk. An exuberant wave drifted in and wet the hem of her dress and she lifted it higher. Her ankles, all fine-boned and provocative, drew his gaze. He was oddly aroused by certain parts of her body - the inside of her tiny wrist, her well-defined clavicle, the bend of her knee. The small of her back held uncanny appeal.

 

 

 

He squeezed her hand. "You're quiet."

 

 

 

"Just thinking."

 

 

 

"About-" he prompted.

 

 

 

She smiled gently, but he could see the edge of melancholy in her eyes. He tensed a little without meaning to. He never knew quite what to do, for her or for himself. It was always there between them, like a dull, throbbing ache or a ringing in your ear that you couldn't ignore, so you learned to live with it.  

 

 

 

"I think about him more when I'm happy," she said, her eyes misty. "I don't know why. Maybe I feel guilty for being happy when I have no idea if he is too."

 

 

 

Mulder's eyes brimmed a little and he bit his lip. "He is."

 

 

 

She looked up at him, cautiously hopeful.

 

 

 

"I feel it, Scully. He is happy. And..." he paused, knowing that he was treading on dangerous ground. "And I know we're going to see him again."

 

 

 

Her eyes widened and she swiped at one cheek. "Mulder, don't." There was a hint of anger in her voice, a warning.  "Don't say that. You don't know-"

 

 

 

"Actually, I do know, Scully. I wouldn't say it if I didn't. I can't explain it, but I've known it for a long time."

 

 

 

Her breath hitched and she broke away, going to stand at the edge of the water with her back to him. Her arms were wrapped around her body like armor. He gave her a minute before coming up behind her and placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She turned into him and slid her arms around his waist, resting the side of her face to his chest.

 

 

 

"When?" she asked, and the sound of her voice was almost lost in the drumming of the surf. 

 

 

 

He breathed deeply and exhaled. "Not long." She clung to him tighter and he looked out over the endless expanse of water. He wasn't lying to her just to give her hope; he'd never do that to her. After searching the better part of his life for truth, he knew only two things to be absolute certainties: Dana Scully was the only woman he would love for the rest of his life. And they would see their son again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Starting Again**

 

 

Mulder reentered life in a series of baby steps. Scully mostly just observed. The week after getting his letter from the FBI, he reapplied for his driver's license. It took him four hours at the Department of Motor Vehicles, four phone calls with Walter Skinner, and two notarized letters from the FBI. Then he bought himself a used Jeep and Scully barely saw him for three days. He just drove. He was up and gone before she left for the hospital in the morning and home after dark each night. She didn't ask him where he went; she didn't need to know. He came home to her at night and kissed her with the feverish desires of the newly free.

 

 

 

The floor of his 2005 charcoal Grand Cherokee was a sea of fast food wrappers, empty plastic soda and iced tea bottles, gas and toll receipts. She thought that if he going to drive this much, he could've at least bought something that didn't cost sixty-five dollars to fill with unleaded.

 

 

 

The second week, he opened two bank accounts and several mutual funds in his real name and spent days moving around cash that he had kept hidden for years in various safety deposit boxes under aliases. While he was out for a run one morning, she went into his office to gather up the empty coffee mugs and various dishes that he annoyingly neglected to transport to the kitchen sink, and couldn't help but notice several account statements. Well, she might have looked through stacks of messy papers and peeked in some legal size envelopes. But she didn't open anything that wasn't already open.

 

 

 

A blue ceramic coffee mug slipped from her grip and shattered on the hardwood floor as she blinked at the paperwork and fell back onto his office chair, one hand to her mouth. She knew he had money, had acquired it from both of his parents' estates.

 

 

 

But Jesus Christ, he had money.

 

 

 

It was not something they had discussed, in so many words. However, when they purchased the house, it was Mulder who had fronted the cash, in full, so she could purchase it in her name without a mortgage. In exchange, she paid most all of the monthly living expenses from her checking account, and her doctor's salary was more than enough to do so. They lived modestly.

 

 

 

She had been wondering, following his exoneration, if he would return to some kind of work. Clearly, after seeing his account statements, he could take his time doing so.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

A month after the arrival of the letter that changed their lives, Walter Skinner's sedan crept up their gravel driveway at a half past six on a Sunday. They had been expecting him. He got out of his car wearing jeans and a chambray blue long-sleeved shirt with hiking boots. He stood with arms crossed,  regarding the farmhouse uncomfortably until Mulder opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.

 

 

 

“You found it,” said Mulder, descending the steps and extending a hand.

 

 

 

“It wasn't easy.” Walter grasped him in a firm shake.

 

 

 

“That's the idea.”

 

 

 

Skinner pulled a large envelope from the back seat of the sedan and handed it to Mulder, who didn't bother opening it. “Everything's there,” said Walter, and Mulder nodded, unsure what was expected of him in this situation.  He hoped not his gratitude. The last six years of his freedom had been stolen from him and his life's work made into a mockery. He was grateful for Skinner's support and he considered him a friend, but the rest of the FBI could bite him, for all he cared.

 

 

 

“Do you want a beer?” Mulder offered, and Walter nodded and followed him toward the front steps.

 

“We're counting on you staying for dinner. Scully cooked.”

 

 

 

“That's a good thing, I take it.”

 

 

 

“Most of the time,” Mulder smiled. “In this case, yes.”

 

 

 

The two men entered the house and Mulder tossed the envelope onto the table and went for two beers in the refrigerator. When he got back to the living room, Skinner was still standing awkwardly right where Mulder had left him, about ten feet from the front door. Mulder handed him the beer and Skinner raised his bottle in a silent toast.

 

 

 

Mulder clinked bottles and tipped his back for a long swallow.

 

 

 

Walter's eyes scanned his surroundings with an obvious sense of curiosity, although the man repeatedly cleared his throat and shifted his feet, trying not to look as if he was memorizing every square inch of their first floor.

 

 

 

It occurred to Mulder that, even though Walter had witnessed random moments of shared intimacy between he and Scully over the years, had even acknowledged the birth of their child, it was still his former boss's preference to pretend that there had never been, and still wasn't, any hanky panky going on.  And yet here they were. Standing for the first time, in the middle of a home that Mulder shared with Scully, where they lived as a couple, as lovers - for all intents and purposes as husband and wife, although technically they were not. But that's all it was – a technicality.

 

 

 

Mulder looked around with fresh eyes, seeing what Walter saw. The décor was warm, comfortable and homey.  It was all Scully's influence. If Mulder had been left to his own devices, there would have been a piece or two of worn leather furniture, instead of a fabric sofa and two matching chairs with plaid accent pillows and an ottoman. The end tables would have featured a couple of layers of dust instead of tasteful lamps. And there certainly would not have been fresh flowers and folded cloth napkins on the dining room table.

 

 

 

“It's nice,” said Skinner, appreciatively.

 

 

 

“It's mostly her,” confirmed Mulder, as if he really needed to. “I did the painting, though. It's Mulling Spices.”

 

 

 

Walter raised a brow.

 

 

 

“The color,” clarified Mulder. “It's called Mulling Spices.” Skinner cleared his throat and took a long swallow of beer. Realizing that his manhood was beyond saving at that point, Mulder walked to the dining room table and picked up the envelope Skinner had brought, emptying its contents in one shake.

 

 

 

A blue passport booklet fell out, along with several other official-looking legal sized envelopes. One held a social security card and another his birth certificate. All in his own real name for a change. He studied the documents. The photo on his passport was an old one, the same one he used to have on his FBI badge. He unfolded the thick ecru paper with the raised seal that was his new birth certificate. His original one, along with many of his personal effects, had been seized from Scully's apartment by the FBI when they became fugitives six years ago. 

 

 

 

Mulder smiled. “You made me a year younger.”

 

 

 

“What?” Walter walked over to the table.

 

 

 

“You got the date wrong.”

 

 

 

“October 13, 1962, right?” Skinner set his bottle down and examined the paper.

 

 

 

“1961. But I'll take it,” Mulder joked.

 

 

 

“I'll get another one made,” said Skinner, with an apologetic half smile.

 

 

 

Just then, Scully came down the stairs. She had changed from the old faded jeans and tee shirt she had been wearing earlier while cleaning the house, into darker denim and a teal blue cotton sweater that accented her eyes. Her hair was down and brushed.

 

 

 

“Walter,” she said, crossing the room in long strides to give him a polite, but heartfelt hug. “I hope you can stay for dinner.”

 

 

 

“I've been persuaded. Mulder assured me that whatever smells great in the oven had nothing to do with him.”

 

 

 

Scully lifted her brows and smiled up at Mulder. “Chicken Curry. And yes, I will take credit for this one.” She walked to the fridge and extracted a bottle of beer for herself, twisting the cap off effortlessly and taking a drink.

 

 

 

“But you'd be surprised. Mulder actually does most of the cooking now.” She returned to stand next to him and Mulder wrapped one arm around the back of her waist. Walter developed an intensive appreciation for the pattern on the kitchen tiles. Mulder guessed that he and Scully could have dropped to the floor and fucked like bunnies and Skinner would have stood there politely studying the artwork.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walter ate a salad, two helpings of chicken curry, and a large slice of chocolate cake, then accepted Scully's offer to take some leftovers home with him. Mulder got the sense that home cooked meals weren't exactly the norm for him.

 

 

 

Mulder remembered what that was like. Over the past six years, he and Scully had gotten into the habit of eating dinners almost exclusively at home, mostly home cooked, with the exception of takeout once or twice a week. It had simply been too risky for them to frequent restaurants regularly, and besides, they had eaten enough mediocre diner meals over the years to last a lifetime. Neither of them were very good cooks in the beginning, but they had learned over time. 

 

 

 

Dinner ended, dishes were cleared, and Walter made no immediate move to vacate the premises.  Mulder began to wonder if perhaps there was more to his visit than simple transportation of vital documents and a curiosity about what the domestication of he and Scully looked like. Scully shared a couple of looks with him that suggested she might be wondering the same.

 

 

 

Mulder was never good at subtlety. “What's up, Walter?”

 

 

 

Skinner sat with elbows propped on the table, fingering the label on his second beer. “Your name has come up in relation to a couple of cases?”

 

 

 

“What kinds of cases?” 

 

 

 

“Unsolved. Murder investigations.”

 

 

 

“Paranormal flavour?”

 

 

 

“No. Possibly, I don't know.”

 

 

 

Mulder waited for him to continue, but kept his eyes on Scully. He could almost watch the tension drift over her like a shadow. Her eyes shifted anxiously and she bit her bottom lip.

 

 

 

“You've got a reputation among seasoned agents, you know that, Mulder. With your profiling background, you had to expect that-” Skinner shook his head and sighed. “I've been asked by VCU to assess your interest in doing some consulting.”

 

 

 

“Profiling,” said Mulder knowingly, and Skinner nodded.

 

 

 

"Not interested." His answer was surprisingly curt, even to himself. Scully's eyes darted to his and he held her gaze for several seconds. He'd made his choice. She'd made it clear that he needed to and he had.  They'd gone away for five days and made love non-stop, like they had in the early days of being on the run, and then they had come home so he could figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. And this was not part of the plan.

 

 

 

"You don't want to know anything about the cases, then," said Skinner.

 

 

 

Mulder pushed back from the table and walked to the sink. He leaned against the counter, looking out the picture window into the inky black. Six years of their lives had been stolen. The entire first year of being on the run, they had lived in fear. Moving from dingy motel to motel, eating whatever they could manage to buy in ten minutes from a back roads convenience store. Wearing the same clothes for several days because they couldn't find a laundromat that was open in the middle of the night. Listening to Scully quietly cry herself to sleep, only for her to jolt awake an hour later, reaching in the dark and clutching him, eyes wild and screaming his name or worse, their son's.  

 

 

 

They'd called him a liar and a murderer, had discredited his life's work, subjected him to an unfair trial, and had sentenced him to death. And now they wanted to know if he wanted a little extra work on the side.

 

 

 

Son of a bitch.

 

 

 

He ran his rough fingers through his hair and turned around to stand with his arms crossed, defensively. "Who's heading up the investigations? Heffernan?"

 

 

 

Skinner looked up and shook his head. "Heffernan retired four years ago. I'm not sure. Probably Vince Sullivan or Amanda Tate."

 

 

 

Scully couldn't mask her surprise. "Amanda Tate was two years behind me at the Academy."   

 

 

 

"She made SAC last year," he replied.

 

 

 

Mulder got two more cold beers from the refrigerator and returned to the table, setting one down in front of Walter. "Tell me about the cases."

 

 

 

Scully's eyes flashed and then narrowed and she pushed her chair back with a loud scrape and stood abruptly. "Excuse me." She stalked away and then up the staircase and he heard the door to their bedroom close with audible finality.

 

 

 

Skinner shifted in his chair and looked at Mulder uncomfortably.

 

 

 

Mulder sighed. "It's been hard on her. Harder than it has been on me in many ways. She walked away from her life, her family. She didn't see her mother for the first year and now, she sees her maybe twice a year. She's only seen her brothers a couple of times in six years. They don't understand. Her mother, maybe some, but not the rest of her family."

 

 

 

Skinner nodded and drained his beer. Mulder continued.

 

 

 

"She had to requalify to practice and started at the bottom. She has no social life, no friends. She has me. She goes to work and comes home. Tries to keep people from asking too many questions. She's convinced herself that it's enough, that we're together and I'm safe, so that's all that matters."

 

 

 

"What are your plans?" asked Walter.

 

 

 

Mulder eyed him curiously. He wasn't sure whether his former boss was asking him about what he planned to do professionally or where, if anywhere, things were headed with he and Scully now that he was a free man.

 

 

 

"We're figuring that out right now." How was that for vague on all accounts? "I'll be back. I'm going to..." Mulder tilted his head toward the staircase and Skinner nodded his understanding.

 

 

 

Mulder went upstairs and tapped gently on their bedroom door. He heard her muffled voice invite him in. When he entered, she was sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter on her side of the bed holding a photograph in her hand. He sat down next to her and glanced at it. It was a picture of him, but he was much younger, at least ten years. He was sitting by a Christmas tree wearing a dark green cable knit sweater. He remembered the sweater; his mother had given it to him and he hated it because it was itchy. But he couldn't quite place the surroundings. It looked familiar.

 

 

 

Scully glanced up at him with a gentle smile on her face and saw his confusion. "Christmas 1998. I made you go to my mother's house with me on Christmas Eve. Remember? Bill gave you dirty looks all through dinner and then had to swallow his pride when his car wouldn't start and he had to ask you for a jump."

 

 

 

Mulder chuckled. "I remember. Your mom made enough pie for twenty people. I took home leftovers  for a week."

 

 

 

Scully's eyes looked sad and she fingered the edge of the photo. "She always did that."

 

 

 

"How did you get this?" he asked. 

 

 

 

"My mom sent it to me in a Christmas card after we moved here."

 

 

 

Mulder reached for her hand and laced his long fingers among her tiny strong ones. "I said no, Scully. To Skinner. I'm not going to do it."

 

 

 

She curled her fingers in to trace whispers on his palm. "I've been thinking that maybe you should."

 

 

 

"What? Scully, I thought we decided-"

 

 

 

"I decided," she interrupted. "I decided for both of us and you loved me enough to let me."

 

 

 

"I-I don't know what to say. I'd do anything for you."

 

 

 

"I believe that. I do."

 

 

 

He cupped her face with his hands and looked into her eyes. "We talked about this when we were away together. I'm going to write, take some classes, maybe even start a private practice in psychology. We're going to have a life together, Scully, travel."

 

 

 

"And I want all that. But what if-" she took a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but what if you could have it all? Do all those things we talked about and do some consulting work for the FBI once in awhile? Mulder, I know what you're capable of. There are no other profilers in the Bureau that can do what you can. There is no doubt in my mind. They wouldn't be asking you if there were. You could save lives, Mulder. I think you should do it."

 

 

 

He frowned at her and opened and closed his mouth several times. Since "Are you out of your fucking mind?" seemed a little insensitive, he took an alternate approach. "I'm...a little confused. When I was working the last case, you didn't come home. For two nights, Scully. You've never done that before. And just a few minutes ago, downstairs, you were visibly upset by the thought of me working these new cases. Now you come upstairs and look at a photo of me in a stupid Christmas sweater from ten years ago and decide everything is fine and I should go back to work for the FBI?"

 

 

 

"I shouldn't have behaved that way downstairs. It was rude. What Walter must think of me-"

 

 

 

"He thinks you've been through more than anyone should have to endure. And I'm pretty sure he thinks I don't deserve you and that I'm one lucky son of a bitch. He's a very smart man."

 

 

 

She huffed out a breath and gave her head a half shake, her cheeks coloring. She never could take a compliment without blushing, one of the million and one things he adored about her.

 

 

 

"I'm not suggesting you put your suit back on and drive over to the Hoover building tomorrow morning, Mulder. But I suppose if you could do some consulting from home, look over some cases and give your input, and if there's a chance it could save lives, then I couldn't in good conscience stand in the way of that."

 

 

 

"Are you sure?"

 

 

 

She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "But I don't want to talk about the cases with you, Mulder. When I ask you how your day went, it's not an open invitation. I don't want it in the room with us when we eat dinner. I don't want it in our bed when we make love. If you can keep it in a box and keep it separate from our life together, then yes, I say let's try it."

 

 

 

They walked back downstairs, hand-in-hand, and since Walter had perfected his 'pretend-they're-not-sleeping-together' look so well over the years, he was able to maintain his poker face.

 

 

 

Scully handed him a plethora of leftover chicken, wrapped carefully in aluminum foil and hugged him goodbye, telling him how wonderful it was to see him again and he really needed to come to dinner more often.

 

 

 

Mulder gave him permission to share his cell phone number with the SACs for the cases they discussed and Walter looked at both he and Scully like they were crazy. But of course it wasn't the first time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Family**

 

 "I want to see my family," she announced one morning over scrambled eggs and strong coffee.

 

 

 

He nodded, turning the page of the sports section to look for the baseball scores. "I think that's a great idea. You've got the time coming. You should definitely go."

 

 

 

"I want us to go together, Mulder."

 

 

 

He folded the newspaper down and removed his glasses. She stood in front of the toaster holding a knife. Her drawstring pajama pants were a little too long, like so many things on her, and they pooled around her bare feet. Her camisole top clung to her curves and boldly announced the fact that the early morning air in the drafty farmhouse was just a little bit chilly.

 

 

 

He smiled. "Are you going to put that knife down so we can discuss this peacefully?"

 

 

 

Her toast popped up, burnt beyond recognition, just the way she liked it. She retrieved the slices by barely touching their edges and tossed them down onto a blue ceramic plate before slathering them with orange marmalade.

 

 

 

"My mother's not getting any younger. I need to go. You're a free man now, Mulder. There's no reason why you can't go too."

 

 

 

Maggie Scully had moved to the west coast five years ago to be near her grandchildren, who seemed to be multiplying with each passing year. Scully's hospital schedule and their precarious circumstances had made it extremely difficult for her to fly across the country to see her family. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of their situation, one of many that Mulder regretted most.  

 

 

 

He crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm. I can think of one good reason. How about your family hates me."

 

 

 

"They don't hate you, Mulder."

 

 

 

He eyed her skeptically with raised brows and lifted his coffee mug to his mouth.

 

 

 

"My mother has a great deal of respect and affection for you."

 

 

 

"Your mother tolerates me."

 

 

 

"That's not true." Her head tilted to the side in something that was either annoyance or hurt and he felt like a total shit.  "It was my mother who brought it up. She suggested that I bring you."

 

 

 

His face softened a little. "I'd like to see Maggie again," he conceded, forking his eggs.

 

 

 

"So you'll go?" 

 

 

 

"What about the Brothers Grimm?"

 

 

 

"Charlie has never even met you. And besides, he won't be there. He's been stationed in Hawaii for the last year."

 

 

 

That wasn't the one he was worried about and she knew it. He fixed her with a stare.

 

 

 

She sighed and pursed her lips. "Mulder, he's my brother and I'd like to see him. I think he's long since gotten over the choices I've made in my life."

 

 

 

Mulder doubted that very much. He pushed his plate away and just looked at her, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Couldn't she have asked him for something else? Anything else?

 

 

 

She set her plate down at the table and folded herself into a chair, looking down at her food. "Time heals a lot of wounds," she said quietly. "You and I should know that better than anyone."

 

 

 

He got up and carried his dishes to the sink and then started back toward his office.

 

 

 

"Mulder?"

 

 

 

He stopped without turning around. "Just...let me think about it." He went into his office and closed the door. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

When he finally emerged three hours later and sought her out, she was sitting at her computer in her upstairs office, clicking at the keyboard. Her long hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and she was wearing her glasses. Classical music wafted from the small stereo on her bookshelf amidst a wall of twenty-pound textbooks, medical journals, and the occasional guilty pleasure romance novel that she denied enjoying.

 

 

 

He stood in the doorway, arms above his head braced on the wooden frame. "I'll go," he said contritely.

 

 

 

She swiveled around in her chair and removed her glasses, regarding him with reserve. He shrugged back at her. The wheels on the old chair squeaked as she pushed back from the desk and then walked to him without a word. She grabbed a handful of his worn navy blue tee shirt and tugged him down into a hard kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Three weeks later, they flew to San Diego and rented a car. Maggie Scully lived in a modest, but comfortable ranch twenty miles from the city and close to Bill and Tara and the grandchildren.

 

 

 

When she hugged her only living daughter for the first time in a year, Mulder thought she might never let go. Her hair was salt and pepper grey now, but she appeared healthy and strong and had that same  buoyancy and twinkle in her eye that he remembered. 

 

 

 

She approached him with arms wide and Mulder stepped into them tentatively. When she finally pulled back, she took both of his large hands in hers and smiled. "Fox Mulder," she said, her eyes brimming. "You are a sight for sore eyes."

 

 

 

He grinned down at her and then fell into an encore embrace. This time he hugged back.

 

 

 

Mulder carried two suitcase into the house and Maggie directed him to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Scully followed him, dragging their one carry on. Mulder took in the queen sized bed with the patchwork quilt in the middle of the room and arched two brows at Scully.

 

 

 

"What did you expect?" she smiled, tossing her jacket and purse onto the mattress.

 

 

 

He wasn't exactly sure. The couch maybe. But this was nice. 

 

 

 

A little fluffy white mop skittered into the room and jumped up onto the bed, wagging its tail. Scully scratched the dog's head and it rolled over for a tummy rub. Maggie came into the room and scooped the ball of fluff up in one arm. "I see you've met Mozart. He's used to having the run of the house. You will need to shut your door at night if you intend to have any privacy."

 

 

 

Mulder glanced at Scully who smiled.

 

 

 

"I'll let you two get settled in. You have a bathroom all to yourselves, but remember to pull the shade unless you want Mr. Hurwitz next door getting an eye full. There are extra blankets and pillows in the top of the closet, plenty of towels in the bathroom, don't flush the toilet while someone's in the shower, and dinner is in an hour."  Maggie put Mozart down onto the floor and he turned circles and yipped like a little wind-up toy before trailing her out of the bedroom and down the hall.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the evening was spent eating and talking and catching up, looking at photos of a gaggle of grandchildren whose names Mulder couldn't keep straight, and eating some more. Maggie Scully had more food in her kitchen than the three of them could possibly eat in a month, let alone in the four days they'd be visiting. Mulder suspected that, at some point, they might have some help eating the food, and his suspicions were confirmed when Maggie mentioned that Bill and his family would be descending upon then the next day for a barbecue. He was overjoyed and must have looked it.

 

 

 

"Bill and Tara are looking forward to seeing you both," Maggie lied, but Mulder appreciated the effort. "They had suggested a visit at their house, but I thought it might be more comfortable for everyone if we did it here," she added. Well that part was true. If Mulder was going to endure a death glare for hours on end, he preferred to do it on neutral ground.

 

 

 

Well past midnight, and after more dessert than Mulder should have eaten in a week, Scully and her Mom were still on the living room sofa, curled up in their pajamas, sipping from mugs of hot chocolate and talking. Mozart lay across Scully's socked feet, twitching in his sleep.

 

 

 

"I'm going to turn in," said Mulder, pulling himself up reluctantly from a much too comfortable green plaid chair and stretching.

 

 

 

Scully looked up at him with a relaxed smile and reached her hand for his. "Good night," she said, and he leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips. "I'll be in soon," she added. He squeezed her shoulder gently.

 

 

 

Maggie regarded them with an astute, but non-intrusive eye and sipped from her mug.

 

 

 

"Good night, Maggie."

 

 

 

"Sleep well, Fox. See you in the morning."

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Mulder stirred from sleep at the feel of her presence next to him and he rolled toward her. "What time is it?" he asked.

 

 

 

"Late. Almost three," she whispered.

 

 

 

"Wow, you two were really catching up." He slid over closer to her. She was quiet, but he felt something in the air. "What's wrong, Scully?"

 

 

 

She lay still, not moving a muscle.

 

 

 

"What is it?"

 

 

 

"My mother has breast cancer."

 

 

 

He sat up quickly and switched on the bedside lamp, squinting. "What? Scully...."

 

 

 

She was lying on her back staring at the ceiling, her hands crossed calmly over her flat stomach. She blinked repeatedly.

 

 

 

"Did you know before we came?" he asked quietly.

 

 

 

She shook her head.

 

 

 

Mulder's mouth went dry. He had gone from sleep muddled to wide awake in half a minute. "What now?"

 

 

 

His question seemed to startle her from her daze and she took in a deep breath and turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her eyes were pink and puffy. She had been crying. "It's early, which is the most important thing. The prognosis is good and she's getting excellent care. But my mother is seventy-one; nothing about this will be simple." Her eyes flooded.

 

 

 

"Oh Scully," he said, sliding in close to her and pulling her into his arms. She tucked her chin into the center of his chest and released a shuddering breath. His hands caressed the cool strands of her hair and he kissed her head.

 

 

 

"She has an appointment Monday with her oncologist. I'd like to go with her."

 

 

 

"Yeah, absolutely. Of course."

 

 

 

"And there will be surgery, it's unclear how invasive yet. But I want to fly back for it."

 

 

 

He rubbed her back. "Whatever you need to do," he said with his mouth pressed to her hair. Then he pulled back. "What if she came home with us? Some of the best cancer centers in the country are within miles of our house. She could stay with us...you could be with her for all of it."

 

 

 

She looked up at him and smiled sadly and he saw overwhelming gratitude in her eyes. "I thought of that. But this is her home now. Her doctors are here, Bill and Tara and the kids are here. She wants to stay home."

 

 

 

He nodded in understanding. She looked so small and fragile tucked into his arms and he thought about how she would have been dealing with this all alone if he had stayed in Virginia. "Scully, I'll come back here with you whenever you need me to. If you want us to move out here, we will."

 

 

 

She bit her bottom lip, looking unsure as she studied his expression. "You mean that, don't you. About moving here. You're serious."

 

 

 

"Of course I'm serious. If you need to be here, then we'll make it happen."

 

 

 

"What about the FBI? What about the consulting work, Mulder?"

 

 

 

He shrugged. "I don't owe them anything, Scully. I might be able to do some work from out here, and if not, well, then I doubt there would be much love loss on either side." He reached over to turn out the light, then pulled her in closer and they sank under the puffy comforter.  He sighed. "Over the past six years, I've learned some things, Scully. I've learned that I need to be where you are. It's not a choice. If you need to be in California, then we'll move to California. If you need to be in Mongolia, then...I'll need to shop for warmer clothes."

 

 

 

She chuffed out a tiny laugh. Her grip on him tightened and she tilted her face up to kiss him tenderly. It was all the validation he needed.

 

 

 

"We don't need to make any decisions now," she said quietly.

 

 

 

"Okay. Well when we do, we will."

 

 

 

She relaxed in his grip, warm and pliant, and he lay awake long after her breathing became steady and even. This was what it was like, he thought. To put someone else before yourself. He had never been particularly good at it, always harboring an ill-concealed tendency toward self absorption. She, on the other hand, had spent the better part of their relationship putting him first, in work, in love, and everything in between. It was her turn now. He'd do anything, go anywhere, be anything she needed. If he hadn't been such a son-of-a-bitch, he would have figured that out fifteen years ago and their lives might look different now. When he actually thought about the loss for both of them, it was staggering. They were woven together by threads of heartache and passion and tenderness that defied all logic. They were an island unto themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Mulder's arm had fallen asleep and he shifted it from underneath her. She stirred and burrowed closer until the warmth of her exhales could be felt on his bare chest. He ducked his head to inhale her and let sleep take him.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

Mulder walked out from the kitchen onto the deck carrying a large platter of marinated chicken and two   beers. Bill eyed him from his kneeling position as he changed the gas tank on the grill. Mulder set one of the beers down on one side of the grill as an offering and the plate of chicken on the other side.

 

 

 

"Thanks," Bill mumbled.

 

 

 

Mulder stood there awkwardly while Bill arranged the meat on the grill. "Want a hand?" he asked, because it seemed like the thing to say.

 

 

 

"I got it." He was a man of few words. Eleven total so far since he had arrived. Mulder had counted.

 

 

 

Two boys chased each other across the backyard in bare feet and baseball caps, screeching. One was Matt, the other was either Mark or Max? Mulder couldn't keep them straight. There was another offspring wreaking havoc somewhere else, and a fourth with blonde ringlets in the kitchen, clinging to Tara like a barnacle.

 

 

 

"Boys," called out Bill, authoritatively. "Not so loud."

 

 

 

They both stopped running, caught off-guard by their father's voice. "Yes, Sir," the smaller M kid replied before both scampered off in the direction of a tire swing.

 

 

 

Sir? Why was he not surprised. He suspected Bill ran his house like a naval ship. Mulder wondered, not for the first time, what he might have been like as a father if he'd been given the chance to raise his son. Not like that, he was certain. He'd be all about mud pies and sandcastles, tickling wars and sneaking cookies before dinner. It would have been up to Scully to dole out the discipline, police the homework, bandage the skinned knees and push the vegetables. But they would have done it together and they would have been good. It made his soul hurt.

 

 

 

Bill sat down on an aged Adirondack chair and stared out at the yard, taking silent swallows of his beer. Mulder did the same, wondering where the hell Scully was and if her absence wasn't part of a masterminded plan to get him alone with her brother.

 

 

 

"So Dana says you're a free man now," Bill said, holding his bottle between his parted knees and peeling at the label. His voice was flat, emotionless, guarded.

 

 

 

"That's what they tell me."            

 

 

 

"Is that because you didn't do it, or because they don't care anymore?"

 

 

 

Mulder startled for a second and glanced at Bill, then huffed out an incredulous laugh. Some things just never changed. It was oddly comforting. What kind of response could he even give to that?

 

 

 

"It's wasn't like that," he managed, trying to play nice. "You don't understand-"

 

 

 

"You're right, I don't," Bill interrupted. "I'll be the first to admit that I don't understand." He sighed and took another long swallow from his beer. "But my sister is probably the smartest person I know, and she loves you, so I have to figure... there must be some things I don't know." He rubbed his eyes tiredly and then ran his hands over his short red hair.

 

 

 

It was disarmingly honest and Mulder realized it was perhaps the deepest form of concession he'd ever get from the man, so he'd better accept it and make the best of things. It was obvious that he loved his sister and wanted the best for her. Every brother would. If it was his sister, Mulder thought, ...shit, he couldn't open up that door. There be monsters.

 

 

 

Mulder cleared his throat. "With all due respect, your sister lives her life on her own terms. She always has. But if it makes any difference, I can tell you that I want her to be happy and safe as much as you do and I'll do everything I can to make sure she is."

 

 

 

Bill turned to look at him, making eye contact for what seemed like forever, then he dipped his chin and looked away in some form of acceptance, maybe surrender.

 

 

 

"Will you get married?" Bill asked. It was a valid question and Mulder did not sense from the tone that it was asked in judgment as much as in simple curiosity.

 

 

 

"I don't know,"  he answered honestly. "We might." 

 

 

 

Bill nodded thoughtfully and then got up and tended to the grilling chicken, rotating each piece of meat slowly and carefully before returning to his chair. They sat quietly for several minutes, watching the boys toss a softball back and forth. Mozart came up onto the deck, a flurry of white energy, wagging tail and pink tongue.

 

 

 

The sliding glass door opened and Maggie popped her head out. "There you are! Mozart, come on in the house!" The little dog scampered inside, toenails skittering over kitchen tiles. "He can't be outside unleashed," she said to Bill and Mulder. "He wanders all over the neighborhood." 

 

 

 

She eyed Bill tentatively, then glanced at Mulder and back to her son. "How is the chicken coming?" It clearly wasn't the meat she was wondering about.

 

 

 

"It's fine, Mom," said Bill, a little curtly.

 

 

 

"Good," she said, "That's good. You two take your time. Dana is still mixing up the salad." The door slid closed.

 

 

 

Bill finished his beer and bent to place the empty bottle on the deck next to his sneaker. "Your visit means a lot to Mom."

 

 

 

Mulder nodded. "I'm sorry to hear about the cancer."

 

 

 

Bill's jaw squared and his face turned away. "My mother is a very strong woman. Dana gets it from her."

 

 

 

"That she does," agreed Mulder.

 

 

 

"Dana says she's going to Mom's doctor's appointment with her Monday."

 

 

 

"She is. We don't leave until Tuesday. And she'll be back for the surgery, whenever that is."

 

 

 

Bill nodded and shifted in his chair. "You could both come. If you wanted."

 

 

 

Walls were thinning. Reinforcements were being compromised. "I've been thinking I might."

 

 

 

Bill reached for the empty bottle at his feet and stood. "I'm going to grab another beer. You want one?"

 

 

 

"Yeah, sure. Thanks," said Mulder, draining his bottle in one last swallow and handing it to Bill.

 

 

 

"Hey, turn the chicken, will ya?"

 

 

 

Mulder smiled, getting up. "I got it."

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scully flew back to San Diego four times over the next three months. First for the surgery and recovery, twice more for radiation treatments, and once just because. Mulder went with her every time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Gravity**

 

It took Scully three tries with three different keys to unlock her office door. The surgery on her patient had taken twice as long as expected. Her heels hurt from standing and her stomach protested the apple and half a Three Musketeers she had called lunch more than six hours ago.

 

 

 

She hung her lab coat on the back of her office chair and shut down her computer before retrieving her purse from her desk drawer. A quick glance at her cell phone showed one voice mail. She dialed and entered her password.

 

 

 

"Hey Scully, it's me. Just wondering when you thought you'd be home." A pause and some shuffling, a clearing of the throat. "I miss you."

 

 

 

She smiled. It wasn't just any 'I miss you.' It was a specific kind of 'I miss you.' The kind that meant he'd been thinking about her all day. 

 

 

 

She locked her office and headed for the parking garage, making a quick stop by the restroom to tug her hair free from the ponytail and brush it out. Her heels echoed on the cement floor of the garage as she juggled purse, briefcase and overcoat to finger the unlock on her key fob. Her purse vibrated as she was tossing the whole lot onto the passenger seat of the Taurus.

 

 

 

"Scully." Her voice betrayed a playful smile and she switched her phone to her left hand, sinking in behind the steering wheel and drawing the seat belt.

 

 

 

"Hi. I've got a fire going and a glass of merlot with your name on it."

 

 

 

"Who is this?" she giggled, teasingly.

 

 

 

"You'd better know."

 

 

 

"I thought I told you not to call me at this number. My partner will find out."

 

 

 

He huffed out a laugh on the other end, then lowered his voice. "Does he do the things to you that I do, Baby?"

 

 

 

"Mmm, he's pretty good," she purred.

 

 

 

"Pretty good? Geez, Scully."

 

 

 

She chuckled. "I'm on my way home now. In my car as we speak."

 

 

 

"I'll see you in twenty."

 

 

 

She flipped the visor down to reapply her lip gloss.

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

When she walked in the front door, there was indeed a fire crackling in the hearth. The lights were dimmed and candles flickered from strategic points around the living room. There was a suspicious stack of large pillows in front of the fireplace.  "Subtle," she said, smiling.  Mulder slid her coat down and off her shoulders, then deposited a glass of red wine in her hand.

 

 

 

She was steered toward the sofa where he pulled her feet onto his lap and methodically removed her shoes before digging into her arches.

 

 

 

"Oh God," she hummed, taking a long swallow of her wine and letting the back of her head connect with the sofa cushions. His fingers worked magic for several long minutes while acoustic guitar drifted from the stereo. She smelled something warm and spicy, garlic or oregano. A timer went off in the kitchen and he kissed the top of one foot and slid out from under them.

 

 

 

"Hang on, be right back."

 

 

 

She moaned in protest and then placated herself with more wine. Her shoulders felt warm from the fire and she could literally feel the tension being released from her body. Rolling her head lazily, she opened her eyes to see the back of him standing at the oven. He was removing something that smelled heavenly.

 

 

 

"What is that and how soon can I have it?" she whined. Cupboards opened and closed and plates clanked.

 

 

 

A few minutes later, he walked back into the living room carrying a plate and napkins. His sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing the blue button down shirt she loved. His hair looked damp like he had recently showered. Jesus, he was hot. She couldn't decide if she wanted the food first or him. Her stomach rumbled and she made a necessary choice.

 

 

 

"Bruschetta with basil and fresh mozzarella," he said, picking up a slice of toast and holding it to her mouth with one hand, the other cupping a napkin underneath her chin. "Be careful, it's hot."

 

 

 

She leaned forward to take a bite, then closed her eyes and chewed, savoring. "Oh my God, that's so good." Her tongue swirled the food around in her mouth and then snaked out to rescue every last drop of olive oil from her lips. She finished one slice and reached for another.

 

 

 

"This is brilliant," she said. "You're brilliant." There were six slices on the plate for them to share. She should pace herself and make it last, but it was too good and she was famished. He munched on his own slice and watched her, smiling in amusement.

 

 

 

They finished the whole plate and then she made a spectacle of herself, licking her lips and each fingertip with aching precision. "Do you know how much it turns me on when you cook?"

 

 

 

"Do you know how much it turns me on when you do that?" he asked, dark eyes riveted on the pink tip of her tongue.

 

 

 

He put down his wine glass calmly, then leaned forward and eased her back onto the sofa cushions.    His lips were slippery with oil, his tongue hot and bold, tangling with hers. She bent a knee and tossed a leg around his hip and he reached under to cup her ass and squeeze, pressing her into him. Long fingers plucked at the buttons on her blouse until it gaped, the warm flat expanse of her stomach tightening and trembling against the cotton of his shirt. His thumb rubbed feverishly at one nipple through her satin bra. She arched and moaned and her tongue adopted an insistent and rather desperate thrusting motion, invading and retreating from his mouth.

 

 

 

His cock ground into her, his jeans and her wool dress slacks no match whatsoever. Her tiny hands reached between them to unbutton and unzip him until she could reach in and stroke. Talented fingers gently tugged at taut skin until she felt tacky moisture and his forehead was creased in something resembling pain. He stopped her with a shaky palm. 

 

 

 

"The lasagna won't be ready for another twenty minutes," he told her cleavage.

 

 

 

"Plenty of time." She placed a gentle hand to his chest and pushed him up until she could slide out from under him. Then she stood and shed the rest of her clothing like snake skin before kneeling naked in front of the fire. He looked at her like she was prey and her heart jumped.  

 

  

 

In seconds flat, he was undressed and on his knees behind her, lifting her ass gently. She arched her back and opened to him and he sank into her in one slow drive, stopping when he was pressed flat against her. He pitched forward, his open mouth pressing into her shoulder with a long groan. "You feel so good. Just...don't move for a second."

 

 

 

She held still, reaching between her own legs to caress her inner thigh. Her vaginal muscles clenched involuntarily and he hissed through teeth. "Scully....Jesus." His fingers gripped her hips. "Give me a minute, please, or I'm not going to last."

 

 

 

Well, she couldn't have that. She relaxed into him and waited until control was regained, which it was within half a minute and he began to move. It was about the best feeling in the world  - him swollen and hard inside her. She felt stretched and tingly all over. Her fingers sought something, anything to dig into and found a thick feather pillow and clutched, scoring enough leverage to push back into him in short thrusts. 

 

 

 

With anyone else, this position, although physically satisfying, had often felt distant and objectifying, and sometimes she resented it. But with him she felt safe and sensual, loved and in love. It was the way he cupped her hips gently with his hands, the way he kissed her bare shoulders and brushed her hair to the side so he could see her face. And God, his hands. Reaching around and through and into her until she shook and cried out - his name usually or sometimes an utterance of profanity that she'd remember later and feel self-conscious about, despite the fact that it turned him on immensely.    

 

 

 

She was wet, embarrassingly so, and his hand pressed hard at her center while he stroked into her from behind. It usually took her much longer, but oh God she was already just so far gone and when he ran his finger up the crack of her ass she lost it, quaking and gasping and pitching forward to bury her face in a pillow and scream. 

 

 

 

Before she had completely caught her breath, he was pulling out of her and rolling her gently. "I want to see you," he panted, "I want to look at your face." 

 

 

 

The flat of his tongue ran all the way up her chest, over one gumdrop nipple and then the center of her throat before claiming her mouth. He settled as a weight on her, smooth, solid and reliable, this body that she knew almost as well as her own.  The head of his cock poked and prodded without aim, wet and slippery against her stomach, her inner thigh, then her anus until she jumped, causing him to mumble an apology, and she actually considered it for a split second, but suspected that might require a conversation first and a lot more wine for her, so she stuck to the familiar. With a shift of hips and her hand between them, she guided him inside her.

 

 

 

His rhythm was precise and immediate. She had come to know it as his 'eyes on the prize' rhythm. He had been a gentleman and had taken care of her and now he was allowed to lose himself. She saw the overwhelming pleasure etched in the contours of his face and she loved it, could watch him do this forever and a day.  The idea that her body, in all of its imperfections, could make him feel this way, thrilled and amazed her. A lump of emotion formed at the back of her throat, and she cupped his face with both hands and choked on a sob and fell in love all over again. 

 

 

 

"What's wrong, what is it?" he panted harshly into her ear. He faltered and slowed, clearly desperate not to stop, but wondering if he should. 

 

 

 

She shook her head against the pillow, the tears brimming now, and wrapped her legs around to press her heels into his lower back. "It's good.... it's just so good and I love you," she said through staccato breaths. He kissed her and then pressed his cheek to hers and came hard, releasing her name and an entire litany of devotion in one long shuddering exhale.

 

 

 

Brushing soft lips against his bare shoulder and skating fingertips up and down his spine, she gave him nonverbal permission to stay put as long as it took. She loved this moment, the period of time right afterward when she could feel his heart galloping in his chest, the contours of his body melded to hers, before he slipped out and they became two again.

 

 

 

An oven timer went off in the kitchen. "Shit," he mumbled, then huffed out a laugh.

 

 

 

"Good timing?" she giggled beneath his weight and kissed him.

 

 

 

"I could've used a few more minutes." He kissed her back.

 

 

 

The kissing continued unabated for another minute. The oven timer sounded again and Mulder groaned.

 

 

 

She smiled teasingly. "I'd get it, but I seemed to be pinned to the floor. And you're on my hair."

 

 

 

He planted another kiss to her lips, then shifted his weight and withdrew from her, rising to his feet. She stretched, long and cat-like on the oriental rug, looking up at his lingering erection. It bobbed and swayed above her head like the needle on a compass and she bit back several sophomoric jokes. She watched his backside as he trotted off naked to the kitchen and thought briefly that perhaps she'd just stay put because the view from down there wasn't half bad.

 

 

 

The timer was silenced and seconds later something incredibly aromatic assaulted her olfactory senses and she was suddenly ravenous. Sex did that to her sometimes.

 

 

 

She groped around for something to wrap around her (they were downstairs and there were windows and despite the fact that the next house was a mile down the road, she was still a lady). But all she could come up with was a loosely knit green and tan afghan. It didn't cover much of anything and her breasts seemed to be intent on peeking through various holes, but compared to Mulder, she was overdressed. She pushed her messy sexed up hair from her face and followed her nose into the kitchen.

 

 

 

Mulder stood in front of the stove with his back to her, wearing nothing but oven mitts. She snorted and he turned around and eyed her, amused. "That's a good look for you," she giggled. At least he was no longer erect or she wasn't sure if she could have helped herself from hanging an oven mitt off him.

 

 

 

"You should talk," he smiled teasingly, tweaking her peek-a-boo nipple with his thumb.

 

 

 

"Feed me," she demanded, wrapping her arms around his waist and appreciating the bubbly masterpiece on the stove.   

 

 

 

"Should we put clothes on first?"

 

 

 

"Perhaps," she said. 

 

 

 

He served up lasagna and she retreated to the living room to perform the 'this is mine, that's yours' sorting process that always followed sex in unconventional places. She slipped his button down shirt on and little else, knowing he wouldn't mind because he loved when she did that. He made due with his boxers and undershirt and they ate piping hot lasagna seated on the floor at the coffee table.

 

 

 

She hummed happily through bites of al dente noodles and cheesy gooeyness and he refilled her wine glass, even though she already felt flushed and a little sleepy. Everything about this was good. His shirt smelled like him and was smooth as satin brushing against the tops of her thighs. The room had taken on a dreamlike quality as the spice-colored walls reflected the warm glow of firelight. Her eyelids were slightly heavy.

 

 

 

"I like it here," she said, inhaling deeply.

 

 

 

"Here, where?" He stretched his bare foot out to connect with hers under the coffee table, sole to sole, and his toes scrunched around hers. She could have fit one and a half of her feet against his. 

 

 

 

"Here in this house. With you."

 

 

 

"What about California?" he asked.

 

 

 

"What about it?"

 

 

 

"We could go."

 

 

 

She pushed her empty plate away and took another sip of wine, letting the smoky liquid coat her throat. "It's been six months since my mother's last radiation treatment. She's doing really well."

 

 

 

He chewed thoughtfully and quietly.

 

 

 

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

 

 

 

He sighed. "I'm thinking...home is where you are. But this is nice. It has a certain sense of...belonging to it."

 

 

 

"Well, we don't have to decide anything right now."

 

 

 

"Of course not," he agreed, then cleared his throat. "We could get married." She almost wanted to laugh out loud because it was that thing they'd be dancing around til the day they died and they both knew it. As if they weren't married already. They were more married than just about anyone else she knew that was.

 

 

 

Still, he had gone and said the M word. It was the one that was guaranteed to get a reaction out of a woman, and she was no exception. Her eyes grew wide and she chanced a look at him. He was staring down into his wine glass, swirling the burgundy liquid. "Just if...we're discussing all of the options," he added matter-of-factly.

 

 

 

She drew in a deep breath and chewed at her bottom lip. "It is one of them."

 

 

 

"But we don't have to decide that right now either." Advance and retreat. Advance and retreat. Fifteen years of this. It was a damn good thing she knew where his heart really stood or she might have been tempted to knee him in the balls.

 

 

 

"We wouldn't want to rush into anything," she said quietly, returning his serve. The corners of her mouth edged upward.

 

 

 

One palm found her bare knee and his thumb stroked tenderly. "Right. We definitely wouldn't want that." His gaze volleyed between her lips and her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her.  Damn him. To disarm her like that with his mouth. You'd think she'd have a defense by now.

 

 

 

She sucked on his bottom lip like a pacifier and he whimpered. His fingers went to her hair and she knew the dishes would not be getting done tonight. Her eyelids were heavy and the bedroom seemed so very far away and fuck, he tasted really good. She rolled back onto the piles of pillows by the fireplace and tugged him with one handful of tee shirt and one of boxer shorts.

 

 

 

"Let's go to sleep," she said.

 

 

 

"Yeah."

 

 

 

"Right here." She was a little buzzed and he was soft beneath her and she burrowed. "We can decide all that stuff another time."

 

 

 

"Mmm hmm." Shoulder beneath her cheek, nose in her hair, strong arms anchoring her. He was gravity.

 

 

 

"I like it here," she whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******The End******

 


End file.
